


In Sleep What Dreams Might Come

by carmenta



Series: Circumstances [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, POV Bard, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 107,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5453570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an Elvenking in his bed, a Dwarven realm at his doorstep and a dragon in his nightmares. </p><p>Bard's days used to be much simpler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a mammoth effort to edit, and I couldn't have done it without rekishi's unrelenting helpfulness. Bard, my dear, if you ever want to get frisky in a bath again with your Elf, I'm going to have you mauled by an irate squirrel.

Bard stepped around the corner of Steep Street, his mind on the plans for repairing the citadel walls, when Imrahil charged at him with daggers drawn. 

Instinct more than conscious thought had Bard throw himself backwards, barely out of the Elf's path, and he scrambled for his sword while Imrahil skidded to a halt, pivoted and came at him again a lot faster than anyone ought to be able to.

Luck more than skill let him block the Elf's next attack. With a noise somewhere between a hiss and a snarl Imrahil backed away, adjusted his grip on his daggers and went for Bard again, cold determination in his grey eyes. The first few slashes and stabs were experimental, Bard could tell that much, but it still cost far too much effort to parry them with the blade of his sword. By sheer coincidence he managed to knock Imrahil's hand aside and leave him open to an attack. 

It was the uneven ground that did it, the ground and the fact that Imrahil no longer was where he'd been a moment ago. Bard hadn't even seen him move, he just felt a sharp rap against his calves that sent him stumbling. Before he could recover his wits he was flat on his back on the rough paving stones, a wickedly sharp dagger a cold bite at his throat. 

Bard held very, very still and didn't dare to even gasp for breath. 

"Yield," Imrahil hissed, pinning him with one knee on his chest, the other pressing down on the wrist of his sword arm. 

"No," he growled back, and got a hard slap to the cheek with the flat of the dagger's blade in response.

"And you're dead," Imrahil said pleasantly, getting back to his feet in one fluid motion, daggers already resheathed with a twirling flourish. He didn't even look ruffled. Bastard. "If this had been a real attack, you would now stand before Mandos and ask what happened."

Bard glared up at him. "No need to enjoy it that much, Princess."

"You should have run," Imrahil went on, pointedly ignoring him. "I left you an opening. You're not nearly proficient enough with a sword to make confrontation a reasonable response." 

With a groan, Bard pushed himself up with decidedly less grace than his opponent. His back wasn't at all happy with him. "If I'd run, you'd just have tackled me and then I'd have gotten a dagger in the arse."

"Maybe." Imrahil shrugged. "This way, I would have cut your throat. A quicker way to go, perhaps." 

Bard wiped his dirty hands off against his coat and bent to gather up his sword. He liked the fine Elven blade, a gift from Thranduil, but he was only too aware that he needed to work on handling it properly. Against Orcs he could stand his ground, but they weren't exactly known for their finesse.

"Reassuring," he muttered as he checked the sword for damage. "Would I have gotten away if I'd run?"

Tilting his head, Imrahil looked around them. "Not without a guard to block me and buy you time. You should reconsider your stance on that."

"We've been over this. I'm not going to waste someone's time and labour just to make them follow me around all day. Besides, the only one who's trying to kill me these days is you." 

Imrahil treated him to a stern look at that. "And I could have done it every single time I tried."

"Not that time I kneed you in the groin." Bard held fond memories of that achievement, petty as it might be. "I'm not bothering with guards." 

"Then you'll have to learn to defend yourself better. You Men are far too easy to kill." Imrahil's eyes narrowed as he looked Bard over, making him feel like a raw recruit. Another shake of his head, then he vanished around the corner without a further word, doubtlessly to plan his next ambush.

Bard watched him disappear, then straightened his clothes and continued on his way, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of being watched. He had no idea what exactly had made Imrahil decide that there needed to be practice assassination attempts to spice up their lives, but the Elf clearly was determined to keep them up. It was almost touching to see him care about Bard's safety like that, though the sodding bastard also enjoyed himself far too much for comfort.

The rest of the day passed without any further attempts upon his life, fake or otherwise. Which was good, since Bard hardly had the time for that kind of distraction these days. It had been two weeks since the rebuilding efforts in Dale had begun in earnest, and he hadn't found a free hour ever since. Winter was upon them, as the Elves were fond of pointing out; not that it took their honed senses to see the signs. But that meant that buildings needed to be evaluated, decisions had to be made about which structures to keep and which to abandon. The group of Dwarves who'd been sent by Balin to assist them had turned out to be invaluable for that work, and they’d make the difference between a hard winter and an impossible one. But everybody still expected Bard to make the final choices on anything from which roof to mend first to the best place for a stable, or how many hands should be assigned to sewer cleanup duty. He wished people would believe him when he pointed out that he was hardly an authority on these matters. 

"There's a messenger for you," Percy told him when Bard returned to what had been Thranduil's tent in the ruins of the old palace's main hall, and what was now their makeshift meeting place until at least part of the roof could be repaired. Thranduil had been kind enough to leave the tent to them, and Bard had pretended not to hear his murmurs about needing at least one proper place to receive visitors that wasn't in shambles and leaking rainwater.

"From the Elves?" He’d received regular letters from Thranduil since the Elvenking had left with his main army, full of information about supply delivery schedules, movements of Orcs in the area and a myriad diplomatic matters. And, most importantly, about Sigrid and Tilda's stay in Thranduil’s halls and their promise to make one last trip to Dale before winter set in.

Percy shook his head. "No, that would've been much better. Looks like Alfrid's not as gone as we'd have liked him to be. We should have left him stuck in that troll to suffocate, would have saved us a world of trouble.”."

Bard drew a sharp breath at that. After Alfrid's departure he hadn't spared the slimy git - literally, at that point, as he’d just been dragged out of a troll’s maw - another thought, and he didn't know what he'd thought would become of that little weasel. Alfrid had run after the battle with enough gold in his makeshift bosom to let him go wherever he pleased. That he resurfaced now didn't bode well. 

"Where is he?" Bard asked. 

Percy waved vaguely in the direction of the main square. "We left him sitting by the fountain, didn't seem smart to let him stay here with the plans and maps and all that stuff. And it's not Alfrid, he's sent Braga to talk for him."

Bard rolled his eyes. "He couldn't have found anyone worse, could he?"

"Well, look on the bright side, at least nobody's started pelting him with eggs yet."

"That's only because we don't have any eggs to spare." Bard heaved a sigh and swiftly checked his clothes and weapons. Normally he couldn't care less about appearances, but if he'd picked up one lesson from Thranduil, it was that sometimes it paid off to look as impressive as possible. In Bard's case, that wasn't very impressive at all these days, but when it came to dealing with the former head of Lake-towns loathed guards he'd take what edge he could. 

That same idea seemed to have occurred to Percy; he followed Bard without comment, looking far more threatening than he ever had as Lake-town's portmaster. He had his own reasons to dislike Braga, Bard knew, just as most of Dale's new inhabitants did. Always the Master's weapon, the guards had been hated. Even now those among them who'd decided to stay in Dale and who'd fought with the other survivors were still viewed with some suspicion.

When Bard stepped out onto the raised platform overlooking the main square, he could feel the change in atmosphere. Normally the square would be bustling with activity as the central gathering point, but right now people kept to the fringes, muttering to each other where they stood in tight groups. Seated on the wall of the fountain's basin, Braga was watching them with a smug smile on his face. He still wore the armour and uniform of Lake-town's guard captain, though it looked patchy in places.

"King Bard," he drawled and got up to give an exaggerated bow. 

"I'm no king," Bard countered sharply. He wished he knew how to put an end to that nonsense; being called a lord was bad enough without a crown to complicate matters even further. Dragonslaying really shouldn't be a basis for a monarchy.

Braga shrugged. "Master Alfrid sends his greetings from Lake-town," he said. 

Around the square, people fell silent. 

"So that's where he's ended up?" Bard asked, careful to keep his voice even. "As the Master of an abandoned town? Perhaps for the best, that way nobody can protest against him." 

Master of Lake-town. They should have known Alfrid would try something like that. 

"Abandoned?" Braga gave a derisive laugh. "Hardly. There are enough people who're wise enough not to follow you, Bargeman. Lake-town's going to be rebuilt and everybody's going to prosper again. Not like you up here with your old crones and drunkards. Useless, the lot of them. Anyone in their right mind should leave before night falls." 

At his side, Bard could feel Percy take a step forward and quickly raised his hand to stop him, just in case. The last they needed was a brawl. Besides, he could see Elves up on the walls, not quite hidden but unobtrusive, and he was willing to bet that at the first sign he gave, arrows would fly. It was a reassuring thought.

"What do you want?" he asked calmly, well aware that everybody was listening. 

Braga came up the steps, right into Bard's space, and it took effort to keep still. "The Master extends an offer to you. Come back to Lake-town, bring the people with you. If you do, he'll forgive you." 

"What for, that I didn't tell him the dress didn't suit his figure? I'm sorry for that." Bard straightened and squared his shoulders just a little more. "He doesn't really expect us to return, does he? Why would we? Lake-town burned, we all saw that there is nothing left. If Alfrid thinks several hundred people can survive the winter in the farming sheds along the shore, he's even blinder than I thought." 

A few people had returned to the Long Lake in the past few days, but Bard didn't think that had been out of any old loyalties. They were fishermen, it was all they knew and they didn't want to try their hand at a new life. While Bard didn't think their decision wise, all he could do was wish them well and hope for the best. It seemed that now he'd also need to hope that they managed to stay out of Alfrid's way. 

"We're rebuilding," Braga said, "better and greater than before. Which brings me to the second message the Master wants me to give you." 

Bard waited and refused to play along by asking.

"The gold. You've taken Lake-town's share. If you hand it over now, the Master will be lenient." 

For a few moments Bard was at a loss for what to say in response. He'd negotiated with Thorin for their fair share; they all had marched into battle for it and far too many had paid with their lives in the end. It was theirs, it belonged to the people here and they needed it as their one chance to rebuild and recover. 

"The Master's willing to be kind. He won't take what you've already wasted out of your hide," Braga went on. "Just turn over what's still left." 

"If he wants the gold owed to Lake-town, he can come and claim it from the Dwarves." And wouldn't that be a sight to behold. Bard almost wanted Alfrid to give it a try, if only to see the Dwarves' response to such a move. 

"Is that your answer?"

Bard calmly met Braga's eyes. "Tell Alfrid to speak to the Dwarves about the gold, it's theirs to give. We only took the fair share owed for the destruction of Dale, and it's been agreed with Lord Balin and King Dáin that it will be used to rebuild the city." He paused, aware that most of the people around the square didn't even pretend to do anything but listen anymore. "And tell him that Dale will support the claim of the people of Lake-town. I'd rather have friendship between us than anything else." 

"I don't know that the Master's going to think that's enough," Braga said. 

Bard shrugged. "It's what he'll get." 

"A pity." Braga took a step forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword in a gesture that was anything but casual, and out of the corner of his eye Bard saw one of the Elves on the wall ready her bow and take aim. He tried to wave his hand dismissively without drawing too much attention to it and it probably worked, since Braga didn't suddenly keel over with an arrow into his back.

"We are not going to stand in Lake-town's way if they are reasonable," Bard said. "You can tell him that." 

Braga huffed another derisive laugh. "He'll be happy to hear that, I'm sure." 

"Best get back to him then, don't let him wait."

One more sneer, then Braga spat at Bard's feet and turned away without another word.  
Once their unwelcome visitor had mounted his scrawny horse and left, Bard took a slow breath and looked around to make sure the Elves had stood down. He saw several with their bows still in hand, expressions grim, and wondered whether Braga had even been aware of them. Ever since the battle, the people of Dale had grown accustomed to the often silent presence of their allies, and by now they had all settled into workable patterns around each other. They had also grown a lot better at spotting the Elves - with the exception of Imrahil, who got far too much pleasure out of being an irritating, invisible bastard. 

Perhaps they should try and see whether Imrahil wouldn't like to visit Lake-town. It would hardly be diplomatic, but it would send a clear message, and right now Bard didn't have the patience to play whatever game Alfrid was trying to start. Imrahil was fond of scaring people, so they might as well use his talents and inclinations for the greater good.

If Alfrid wanted to proclaim himself the new Master of whatever was left of Lake-town, then Bard wasn't going to stand in his way as long as Dale was left in peace. As for those who decided to follow him… it was their choice, and perhaps they preferred a known quantity like Alfrid and their old life on the lake to the uncertainty of Dale. Bard wasn't going to begrudge anyone a decision against following him, not when he still had far too many doubts that he was the best to do this. Let them try to take their own fate in hand, just as the people of Dale would do. With winter practically upon them already, their paths would hardly cross for months to come. 

With his focus firmly on that last thought, Bard turned his mind away from Alfrid and Lake-town, and back to the more immediate business of scorched roofs in need of thatching and tiling.

***

Everywhere around him the town burned. Wood cracked as a roof collapsed somewhere nearby and splashed into the water. Sparks flew like twisted fireflies and he felt them burn his skin, but even if he could have moved, he wouldn't have cared.

His children. He had to find his children, get them to safety no matter what it took. 

Bard struggled to move, he fought to take just one step that would bring him closer to his children, lost somewhere in this chaos of fire and flame and freezing water. From up on the belltower he should have been able to see their house, but he was rooted in place and couldn't even turn around to look. Couldn't even shout their names and hope against reason that they'd hear, that they might escape. 

"You would stand against me?" the dragon hissed behind him. "You, Bowman, Bargeman, faceless and nameless? Who are you that you presume to challenge me?"

He felt the tower's floor shake under his feet as a gust of burning air tore at its foundations. One step, just one step and then another-

"Death you think to deal me? That such a wretched little creature should dare to stand against me… What a fool you are." 

_I killed you!_ he wanted to scream. He remembered Smaug's roar as the black arrow had struck, he remembered the mind-numbing terror as the dragon still hadn't stopped, the certainty that he'd failed Bain, that he'd failed Sigrid and Tilda. Then nothing and air and heat and water. He remembered dragging Bain to the surface. 

He remembered seeing the dragon fall out of the sky, black as death and no longer burning brightly. 

"It takes more than a lowly beggar to slay a dragon. Why should you succeed when those far mightier than you have fallen to my flames?" 

Again the tower shook. Somewhere below, a support strut creaked, then shattered and the tower began to lean to the side, slowly and then faster and faster. Bard wanted to hold on to something, wanted to jump, to run, something, anything, but he couldn't even blink. It was with open eyes that he fell towards the fire and the freezing water beneath. Towards the certainty that he'd failed his children and all the others.

He felt the flames burn his skin, the water in his lungs-

\- and jerked awake in the darkness, a scream lodged in his throat. An arm's length away on the other cot, Bain murmured something incomprehensible in his sleep, then settled down again. 

It was to the sound of his slow, even breaths that Bard spent the rest of the night wide awake despite his exhaustion.

***

The sun was only just rising a few days later when Bard was confronted by a group of people led by Hilda, her hands firmly on her hips as she scowled at him. Behind Bard, Bain made a wordless noise of dismay at the sight.

"What's wrong?" Bard asked, slowly stepping through the doorway of their little house. The assembled group didn't look angry, which was a relief, but they looked determined about something that Bard suspected he wasn't going to like. He also had the feeling that he wasn't going to start his day with his customary walk through the streets today.

Hilda took a step forward. "You didn't tell us the Elvenking's going to come back tomorrow," she growled. 

Bard frowned. "Just for negotiations. It's not going to cause interruptions. On the contrary, there'll be a few more Elves to help with the carpentry and the roof trusses, so work should go more quickly - if they manage to get along with the Dwarves." 

There hadn't been any incidents so far in that regard, but Elves and Dwarves had mostly ignored each other and were focusing on different areas of Dale. They were all very careful to make it look coincidental that their paths hardly crossed. 

"Good to know, but that doesn't help us now, does it," Kyrre said, a large shovel in his left hand. 

Bard decided that his best option was to simply wait and see where this was going. 

"Where are we going to put them?" Hilda demanded to know. "Bad enough that half the Elves we already got are still in tents for sleeping!"

"Not that they really sleep, I think," someone in the back piped up. "Can't say I ever saw one."

"And why would you go around looking at Elves at night, darling?"

"I was just saying!"

Hilda cleared her throat. "We'll need to find a solution, and you've left us precious little time for it. Visitors, important ones at that, and you'll make them sleep in the streets like common rabble. What are they going to think of us?"

"I don't think we can find quarters for a hundred Elves within a day," Bard said cautiously. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bain slowly inch forward and come to stand at his side. "And they will be prepared for it." 

"We're not talking about the normal Elves, though that's bad enough," Hilda huffed. "Is the Elvenking going to sleep in a drafty tent again as well? That's not proper, we won't stand for that."

It was something Bard hadn't considered even for a moment, in part because Thranduil's tent had been a lot more comfortable than anything they could possibly come up with in Dale. "There are plenty of Elves here," he said, "and Lord Thranduil is in communication with them. If he has objections to staying in a tent, he certainly has informed them already."

The looks he received for that were somewhere between pitying and irritated. "You're the Lord here," Kyrre explained kindly. "You need to offer him something good, it's all about hospitality. The Elves are being nice and we can't look like we're not grateful."

Bard considered that, eyebrows raised. "I assume you've thought of something already?"

"He's a king, he'll have to stay with the Lord of Dale," Hilda said. "That's you." 

He glanced at her. "I'd almost forgotten."

"Certainly looks like it, the way you act sometimes," she said. 

"He's trying, and he's not doing so bad," Percy came to his defense. "He's new to it, he'll figure it out. Anyway, you get to deal with the Elvenking, he seems to like you so that's good."

Bard cast a dubious look at the small house where he and his family had been staying since their first night in Dale, though it was just him and Bain now while the girls were with the Elves. The door was stuck half of the time and only one room was actually usable, the rest was blocked by half-burned roofbeams and covered in dirt. He couldn't imagine Thranduil crossing the threshold voluntarily, not in his fine robes and with his pristine hair. "I think a tent might be better."

"We thought about that," Hilda said, and it sounded slightly ominous. "We can't fix the palace for you in time-"

"You're not _going_ to fix the palace for me!"

"- but there's that nice merchant's house on the south edge of the main square, we can get that tidied up in a day. The roof's still good so nobody's going to get rained on."

"If we use the big house for that, we can have that little shack Bard's got now for the food, can't we?" Kyrre asked. "Not like he's going to use it anymore, right?"

"Good idea," Percy agreed. "The place's dry and the walls are solid, just needs a bit of work on the roof and some of the windows. Should be fine for the lembas stuff at least." 

"But that's our home!" Bain protested before Bard could get over his surprise. 

Hilda gave him a kind look. "Don't worry, you and your father can keep the big one, who knows how often that's going to be needed. And really, if we've got a lord, we need to make it look proper or the Elves and Dwarves are never going to take us seriously. Bad enough that he won't dress the part."

Bard opened his mouth, then shook his head and didn't bother with saying anything. There had been more than one impossible fight in the past weeks, but this one wasn't one he stood any chance of winning.

***

This time the arrival of the Elvenking didn't come as a surprise, as it had been on that first desperate morning. The travelers had been spotted far down the road already, the watches regularly reported on their progress, and by the time they rode up into the main square Bard was ready to greet them. Only the rain marred their efforts, but there was hardly anything they could have done about it when the weather had taken a turn for the worse for the past week already.

"My Lord Thranduil!" Bard called when Thranduil brought his horse to a stop in the middle of the square. He was wearing armour, just as before and probably as a necessary precaution, but there was a noticeable absence of tension about him this time. "I welcome you back to Dale." 

Thranduil shot him an amused glance, then waved his hand in greeting. "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Bard," he returned, with a half-smile at the title which clearly said that he could guess Bard's thoughts about it. But there were plenty of Elves and people of Dale watching, so formalities had to be observed. Bard couldn't wait to get that stuff over with; he wanted to speak to Thranduil properly, he wanted to get everybody out of the rain again. But more than anything else he wanted to see his daughters, who should be somewhere among the Elven retinue. He couldn't see either of them yet, but most of the riders still had their hoods up against the downpour. At least it wasn't snowing yet, though that couldn't be far off. The mornings were turning ever colder, so it couldn't be too far off anymore.

"There's not much we can offer you yet, but shelter from the weather should be possible. We've made what arrangements we could." Somewhere behind him he heard Hilda mutter something under her breath that didn't sound flattering.

"That will be most welcome." Dismounting, Thranduil murmured a few words in Sindarin to his horse that sent it with a group of others that were being led to the stables. After a quick glance at his people in the square, who were being guided to more sheltered places, he swiftly came to join Bard where he stood. "It appears you have been busy while I was gone."

Bard looked around and tried to see the square with the eyes of someone who'd been away for close to three weeks now. They had cleared much of the rubble, and building supplies were set in the western corner, stones of all shapes sorted into piles. The shattered statues had been taken away and the fountain basin held water again, though it was being used as a wash trough at the moment. And the bones of the citizens of Old Dale had been given a proper burial, their forgotten funeral rites replaced by the respect of Dale Rebuilt.

"We've tried our best. Turns out that wanting to be comfortable for the winter is a great motivation. Come, let's get out of the rain, or Sigrid's going to be angry at me for leaving the Elvenking to get wet. Do you have attendants or something?"

Thranduil threw him a faint smile. "They will join me in a moment. For now I would exchange a few words with the Lord of Dale in private."

Returning the smile, Bard glanced around and saw that most of the hooded travelers had already vanished into the surrounding buildings. "Where are my daughters?"

Thranduil's expression turned far too understanding, and Bard's heart sank. "In my halls. It was not safe for them to travel, not in these rainstorms and with packs of Orcs still attacking the roads."

Closing his eyes, Bard took a slow breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. He'd been so certain that he would see Sigrid and Tilda today, that he'd find out how they had fared while they'd been gone, how they were handling life away from him and Bain. This was by far the longest their family had ever been divided and he had been convinced that their separation over the winter would be interrupted today, however briefly. 

"How are they?" he asked, his heart quietly aching. 

Thranduil took a step forward, prompting him to move as well. "I've got letters and messages from them for you. But let's abandon the rain first."

"Of course," Bard agreed almost automatically and led the way across the square to the house he'd been shoved into. There hadn't even been time for him to take a look, but he couldn't have cared less about that now. Bain had seen it, and since his son hadn't said anything it surely was fine.

Bain… Bard would need to tell him that his sisters weren't here, when he'd been waiting so hard for them to come back. The three of them had always been close despite any arguments siblings were bound to have, and it had been obvious over the past days that Bain felt off balance without Sigrid’s level head and Tilda’s exuberance. 

They stepped inside the house and into what looked like a small antechamber, dark except for the light from two small windows high in the wall. Even in here the smell of rain lingered, together with the scent of dust that Bard had come to associate with Dale. 

Thranduil closed the door behind them, leaving them in sudden silence. "They are both well," he said, stepping forward to brush his lips against Bard's brow, his hands settling lightly on Bard's upper arms. "I have last seen them when we left, and they were hale and hearty, though sad that they could not come with us. Sigrid says to remind you that you told her only to travel if it's safe, and that in my realm there is no risk that she'll fall into a fish trap." Thranduil paused. "Which I can confirm, though I'm not certain why it's a concern."

Bard managed a brief laugh despite the tightness in his chest. "That happened four winters ago, she was distracted and slipped off one of the walkways in Lake-town and into the water. Normally that's not a problem, all three of them could swim before they could walk. But she got her leg caught in a fish trap and had to sit tight for a while before we could pull her out. Most embarrassing moment of her life, or so she says. And one of the most frightening of mine." He bowed his head and leaned forward a little into the hold of Thranduil's hands. "I miss them."

"As they miss you," Thranduil said gently, and Bard was reminded that he, too, knew what it was like to be separated from his children, though in his case they were considerably older. "I'd have you know that I kept my promise about not letting Tilda sleep in the stables. She's spending much of her days there, however. One of my horses has been re-named Sunshine."

Bard quirked an eyebrow. "It's a good name for a horse," he said in defense of his little girl. 

"We're speaking of a black stallion." Thranduil studied Bard's face, then closed the distance between them for a brief, chaste kiss to his lips. "You have my word that they are well, just like all the other people you've entrusted to my care." 

"I know." Bard sighed slowly, then straightened and met Thranduil's grey eyes. "You'll have to tell me more, but later. I think I'm supposed to show you where we're keeping you while you're here."

"My attendants will be pleased with that. They weren't too happy about the prospect of a tent once more." Thranduil took a step backwards, his hands slipping away from Bard's arms. "Lead the way."

Bard turned around, walked forward into a great hall filled with old chairs lined up in an orderly row along the wall, and stopped when he realised he had no idea where to go. Thranduil shot him a quizzical glance. 

"There might be a problem," Bard said.

"You've never been here before?"

"How did you guess?"

"I'm beginning to know you." Thranduil waved his hand towards a wide door to the left. "I have been here a few times when this was Girion’s residence before he became the Lord of Dale. If I am not mistaken, this should lead to the upper floor and the quarters for guests and the family." 

Bard quickly went upstairs to have a look, a little scandalised at all the space they would be wasting when it could surely be used for far more important matters. In Lake-town they'd only had the big kitchen and the small attic, and the latter had been too cold in winter so all four of them had slept in the same room. Now there was enough space to house at least a dozen people, though he didn't want to imagine what it would take to keep the rooms warm. Girion probably hadn’t had to consider such questions at the time, though now Bard wondered just what the tie had been between his ancestor and the Elvenking. One day he’d have to ask. 

"We should rejoin our people," Thranduil said when Bard came down again, his head still spinning from the wealth of old furniture he’d seen behind some of the doors, "and let them know what is required of them today. Has Dáin made any changes to the plans for the council tomorrow?" 

"No, he only asks that we hold it in Erebor rather than Dale." Bard hadn't been entirely certain when he'd agreed; it seemed mainly like a plot to make Thranduil enter the Dwarves' stronghold. But the Elvenking didn't look displeased at the news, quite the contrary. 

"Excellent, that means he will be bound by laws of hospitality. Even Dwarves have manners on occasion where those are concerned." Thranduil rolled his shoulders to adjust his flowing cloak. "You and I need to speak about what to expect from the negotiations at some point today." 

Bard breathed an inward sigh of relief at that. With Thranduil being at least nominally an opposing party, he hadn't been certain whether asking was an option. Not that this would have stopped him from doing so, but it was one less concern on his mind. 

"Then let's find your attendants," he suggested, turning towards the building's entrance again. "Before they think I've kidnapped you and now keep you prisoner without any proper furnishings."

Thranduil easily fell into step to his right. "You are aware that I _am_ capable of surviving without small comforts. I simply choose not to when there is no need for it."

"You're making cushions sound like a great achievement of civilisation." 

"I've slept on the ground often enough to appreciate them. And I've been in enough battles to know that the difference between victory and defeat can be whether your army slept well and has dry boots and full stomachs." Thranduil stopped at the door, one step away from the rain that was slowly turning into sleet. "How are your people doing in that regard? The reports I received said that the supplies are sufficient." 

Bard nodded and braced himself before stepping out from under the roof to brave the elements. "It's enough to get us through the winter unless it turns out to be particularly long," he said. They'd spent a lot of time calculating and counting over the past days, and people were slowly beginning to believe that they'd actually make it through all of this relatively unscathed. To Bard it had been heartening to see everyone regain their confidence. 

"We have another handful of weeks before the snow arrives in earnest," Thranduil said, glancing south. The weather for Lake-town had always come from that direction; clouds were no concern when they rolled in from any other side, but what came from the south was to be taken seriously. "I'll send another wagon train with food so you can make it in case something goes awry. Best we don't risk transports in the deep of winter."

"I thought Elves can walk on snow."

"We can. But our wagons can't." Thranduil frowned at the sky and they walked a little faster up the stairs and into the ruins of the palace. 

The leaders of the Elves stationed in Dale were waiting for them already and bowed their heads in greeting when Thranduil and Bard stepped inside. Imrahil was the last to straighten, a little smile on his face and a hand casually dropping onto the handle of the dagger in his belt as he glanced at Bard. 

Bard stared back at him and shook his head in exasperation. "You could pick less conspicuous circumstances, Princess," he muttered.

"Perhaps, but if I wanted to make a point…" Imrahil trailed off, his hand falling away as he assumed a more formal stance again. 

Thranduil looked at his son, then at Bard, raised an eyebrow and appeared to decide that whatever was going on, he didn't need to know right now. Instead he greeted the Elves, then turned to Bard and asked where Bain was. 

"He'll be in the old foundry, the Dwarves are fixing the forge." 

Thranduil nodded at one of the attendants. "Find Lord Bard's son and fetch him," he said, then looked to Bard. "He should be here for this, he needs to learn."

Bard returned the look. "He's learning how a forge works." 

"And that would be excellent if he were the son of a smith," Thranduil said calmly. "But as he is the son of a Lord, there are a few other matters he should be aware of." 

It made sense, of course, but it also turned Bard's thoughts in directions he didn't necessarily want them to go right now. Bain would have to face the duties placed upon him due to his bloodline at some point. In a way, he already had when he had stood with Bard against Smaug. But he was still young, he wasn't yet a man grown. There should be some leniency for him. 

Bain arrived after a little while, breathless and still wiping dark smudges off his face. A quick glance around the tent and the assembled Elves, then he came to stand at Bard's side, quiet and expectant, and Bard rested a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. 

The next few hours were filled with discussions on the state of all kinds of matters in Dale. Imrahil's turn came first, with reports on the rebuilding of the walls and what the patrols had encountered on the plains - mainly scattered Orcs, along with a few wolves. None of that came as a surprise to Bard; regular assassination attempts aside, he'd managed to figure out how to deal with Imrahil where serious matters were concerned. And though the Elf had a talent when it came to being an irritating pain in the arse, he was competent enough that Bard had no grounds to complain. Thranduil wouldn't have left anyone who couldn't handle the situation well, and Bard didn't think he'd make an exception for Imrahil. Besides, the son of the Elvenking would doubtlessly have the training needed to lead an army.

After the military matters they moved on to supplies, then the state of the buildings. Every little detail was considered, estimations were made on what it all would mean for the winter and the coming year, as well as how to improve the conditions with what time was left before winter settled in. 

"You've achieved much in a short time," Thranduil said when they at last assembled far too many lists of far too many things to do, but also a small list of matters already accomplished.

Bard met his eyes. "We did," he agreed. "The people of Dale, together with the Elves of the Woodland Realm." And also the Dwarves, whose help was substantial, but Bard didn't need to be a seasoned hand at diplomatic relations to know that particular insight wouldn't be appreciated right now. 

"And we shall continue to do so." Thranduil looked at Bard, then at Bain, who straightened under the scrutiny. "I would have friendship and alliances between my realm and that of Dale. It will be needed in the coming years."

***

"Is there something we need to be worried about beyond all those lists and tasks?" Bard asked some hours later. Night had already fallen, and he and Thranduil were seated in one of the far too many rooms of Bard's newly acquired house, officially to continue their discussions in a more private setting after supper.

Thranduil reached for his goblet and regarded it for a moment, then drank from his wine. "There is always darkness in the world," he said eventually. "Sometimes the light shines brightly and banishes it to some extent. But I feel that now it's gathering once again."

Bard nodded. "Gandalf has been muttering about similar things." And the wizard had made just about as much sense as the Elf. 

"He should know, he has seen it. And apparently he has understood that we, too, deserve to know when evil gathers on our doorstep." Thranduil put the wine down again and leaned back in his chair, an ornately carved leftover from the last inhabitants. "For what it's worth, I believe there will be peace for a few years. A decade or two if we are lucky, maybe even more. But we must be prepared." 

"Is that why you're willing to talk to the Dwarves? Dáin tried to ask me about it, I think he hates not being able to guess what you're going to propose tomorrow." 

Thranduil's smile was just shy of feral. "A Dwarf, unable to second-guess me. How charming."

"There's a man of Dale unable to second-guess you, too," Bard said. "And he'd appreciate a heads-up in case he's supposed to do something in particular tomorrow."

"The Lord of Dale can rest assured that nothing will be suggested by me tomorrow that will harm his people. Mostly, tomorrow's meeting is to establish boundaries and to make it plain to everybody that you, I and Dáin intend to form an alliance once the dust has settled a little after the past few weeks."

Bard met his eyes. "Do we?"

"We should. My kingdom could endure on its own, but Dale and Erebor can't, not at the moment and in the state you are in. And with what has come to light about Dol Guldur, it is my opinion that even an alliance with the Dwarves is preferable to standing alone." Thranduil sighed, then shook his head. "We will have to speak about this tomorrow, so I'd rather leave it for now. Will you bring your son with you?"

The change of topic caught Bard by surprise. At today's briefings, Bain had behaved well and had even asked some questions of the Elves and of Bard afterwards that had shown he'd understood the issues at hand. Bard had been proud of him for that, but he hadn't considered letting him come along to the discussions with the Dwarves. Apparently Thranduil had other ideas.

"Should I?" Bard asked, drinking from his wine. Elven supplies, brought along by Thranduil's attendants. Clearly he wasn't about to abandon the luxuries he was accustomed to if it could just as well be avoided, and Bard was quite happy to share in a few of them. There had even been a tub of hot water earlier, though Thranduil had been thoroughly scandalised that Bard hadn't asked for the bathwater to be changed once the Elf had been done with it. 

Thranduil nodded. "Bain is your heir, and he's old enough for you to establish that by letting him accompany you. If he's seen with you, people will get used to the idea that he will follow in your footsteps one day."

"I'm not sure I want to place that burden on him." Bard shifted in his chair and tried to find a more comfortable position, but so far he'd been out of luck. Whoever had owned the furniture before had clearly placed aesthetics over comfort. Not that it stopped Thranduil, who looked entirely at ease as he lounged with that boneless elegance only Elves seemed capable of achieving.

"It's not your choice to make. He is your son and as far as I'm aware, Dale and Lake-town never had a tradition of daughters inheriting the leadership positions of their fathers. Otherwise you might consider Sigrid as well, she's got a keen understanding for diplomatic matters."

It was hard not to smile at that praise for his daughter, so Bard didn't even try to suppress it. "She's always been good at reading people," he said. "All the children in the neighbourhood listen to what she's got to say, even the ones who usually call the shots." 

And she'd negotiated refuge with the Elvenking for all those who couldn't endure a winter in Dale under the current conditions, which did count as a greater achievement in Bard's eyes than keeping Bain from pulling Tilda's pigtails. Sigrid had a bright mind, and he was beginning to dare hope for opportunities for her to use it more than she might have been able to as a poor bargeman's daughter in Lake-town.

"She is doing well among my people, and she's been very interested in our customs," Thranduil said, rising from his chair to fetch the carafe of wine from the side table. "Tilda as well, though she is currently more interested in my horses than most other matters." 

Bard cast him a swift smile when his goblet was re-filled. "Thank you for taking care of them," he said with all the sincerity he could muster. He still missed them with all his heart, but at the same time it was comforting to know that they were safe and wouldn't be lacking anything they needed. There might be much he didn't know yet about the Elves and their king, but there was no doubt in Bard's mind that in this matter he could rest easy. 

Thranduil halted in his steps to let his hand fall on Bard's shoulder. "You are most welcome. And I return your thanks for the trust you place in me." 

"You haven't given me any reason to do otherwise, and I don't believe you will." Bard raised his hand and rested it on Thranduil's where it lay on his shoulder, warm and solid. "You're my ally and you're my friend." 

All he understood from Thranduil's murmured response was _elvellon_ , Elf-friend, and what he thought was Sindarin for 'shining star', which didn't make too much sense to him. One of these days he'd have to start learning the language properly; there were far too many Elves surrounding him right now, and at least some of those under Imrahil's command barely spoke the Common Tongue. Bard was picking up random words here and there, but mostly it was swearing, or what passed for swearing among Elves. They were a fairly dainty bunch where colourful language was concerned.

"Whatever you said, I'll probably agree," he offered and received an amused chuckle in return. 

"I should teach you so you finally speak a more civilised tongue." Thranduil's hand slipped out from under his own and brushed along his neck, a warm point of contact that left him wanting more and cautiously hopeful that he might have it once more.

"Perhaps I'll learn with the right incentive," he said, aiming for a balance between teasing and suggestive.

"And what might that be?" Thranduil asked as his fingers carded through Bard's hair now; he leaned into the touch with a quiet sigh, his eyes falling shut. The strip of leather he'd used to tie the worst strands back and out of the way was carefully plucked loose. 

"I think you can figure it out. Elves supposedly are so very wise." The deft fingers in his hair felt good against his scalp, a fleeting reminiscence of less complicated days long past. Briefly he leaned forward to place his wine on the table before him, one less distraction in his hands. He heard a low clink as Thranduil set down his own goblet somewhere. For a little while Bard focused on the small sensation of snarls getting detangled and errant strands combed out. 

"We can also be very foolish," Thranduil said.

"Sometimes there isn't much of a difference," Bard offered and was rewarded with a brief tug at his hair that might have been reprimand or agreement. "Does it matter?"

"Perhaps." Thranduil paused. "Perhaps not."

"Go not to the Elves for counsel…"

This time the tug definitely was chastising. Bard cheerfully ignored it and leaned back until he could rest his head against Thranduil's stomach, and after a moment the slow petting resumed. 

"Galion has informed me of something alarming earlier," Thranduil said eventually, his amused tone making it clear that there was no need to be concerned. 

Bard tilted his head back until he could look at Thranduil, albeit upside down. "What would that be?"

"Apparently the bed provided isn't acceptable." 

"And what am I supposed to do about that?" It was impressive enough if a bed had been found in the first place, though there certainly weren't any mattresses to be had in Dale after two centuries of abandonment. 

Thranduil shrugged, tracing the shell of Bard's ear with his fingertips and sending a quiet shiver down his spine. "I was hoping you would be kind enough to offer me yours."

"Where am I going to sleep then?"

"I don't see why you should have to move." 

Bard raised his eyebrows at him. "Is that so. Well, in that case, I hope you're willing to have an early night." 

"You are tired?"

"I didn't say anything about sleeping, did I?"

Thranduil's expression turned into one of thorough amusement as he offered Bard a hand to draw him to his feet. "By all means then, let's retire."

Actually finding the bed in question turned out to be more complicated than expected and took a few attempts. For the most part the upper floor of the house had been emptied, though they came across a room that was still set up as a study of sorts, with a large desk and several uncomfortable-looking chairs. Finally the next door Bard tried yielded the desired results - a bedroom which, judging by the sight of his second coat tossed over the back of a chair, was intended to be his. Not that he'd have had much more patience for exploring when he could feel the touch of Thranduil's hand at the small of his back, tracing small circles that were just a little too deliberate to be innocent.

The clearly Elvish pillows and sheets did give him pause, however. He could have sworn that his bedding had looked different this morning.

"Should I just assume that your attendants already appropriated my bed for you?" he asked with a quick glance at Thranduil.

"I encourage initiative where it's suitable."

Bard looked at the cushions, then back at the Elf. "I take it they know that we're…" he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the two of them when he didn't know what to call what was between them. "This."

"You _have_ spent considerable time with me," Thranduil said. "And I have guards outside my tent when I am forced to reside in such rustic settings."

Guards who had good hearing, not that anyone but a deaf person could probably have failed to catch those particular sounds with only canvas to muffle them. For a moment, Bard hovered between concern at having such private moments witnessed when he had no idea what consequences it might have, and faint contentment that Thranduil appeared not to be worried by the idea. 

With a shake of his head he pushed those thoughts aside and stepped close, raising his hands to cup Thranduil's face and draw him into a kiss that was eagerly returned. It felt easier this time, less hurried than when they'd done this before. No immediate concerns for survival, no looming battles or the chaos of their aftermath. Just the two of them without any need to rush, and Bard happily let himself be dragged down into those soft, ridiculous Elven cushions. 

"You know," Thranduil murmured in his ear, his hand slowly drawing up the hem of Bard's tunic, his fingertips a warm distraction, "there is nobody to overhear you tonight." 

Pushing up, Bard rolled them over until he was half on top of Thranduil, sparing a grateful thought to the wider bed. They'd have ended up on the floor already if he'd tried that kind of vigorous move before, along with all the froofy cushions and their golden tassels. 

"What makes you think I'm going to be the one to be loud?" he asked with a grin. 

"We shall see." Thranduil smirked back up at him, his hair still impossibly smooth and his clothes barely wrinkled. Bard fought a sudden urge to try and ruffle him a little. He opted for another kiss instead to stay on a safer path; even Thranduil's tunic seemed far too fine to risk damaging it, to say nothing of the outer robes they'd fortunately left in the safety of the chair by the window already.

He soon wished that they'd dealt with the rest of their clothes as well before tumbling into bed. Having Thranduil solid, close and so very tempting wasn't doing much for Bard's concentration, not when it was far more interesting to focus on the shift of long limbs and firm muscles against him as they settled ever closer together. 

"You're making these tricky on purpose," he complained with a half-serious growl when he couldn't figure out where the fastenings on Thranduil's tunic were hidden. 

"They're merely simple buttons," Thranduil countered but helpfully caught Bard's hands in his own and guided them inside the collar of his tunic. "Right there, it's very simple." 

Bard growled again as he gave it another try and felt the fiendish little things slip from his fingers. "There's nothing simple about this." He'd thought the clasps on the Elvish tunics he'd been gifted were complicated when he'd needed a few tries to undo them, but those were nothing compared to what he was confronted with now. It didn't help that Thranduil's hand had by now wandered down along his spine and found their way inside his trousers, and was now creating far too much of a distraction. Not that he minded, as such; he just wanted to finally get these sodding clothes out of the way. 

Success, finally, and he didn't have the patience anymore to do anything but toss that offending garment off the side of the bed. The rest soon followed; he was in no mood to draw this out when what he wanted was to touch and taste and feel Thranduil's smooth, warm skin against his own.

Thranduil's amused mien was far too easy to read as Bard bunched up their remaining clothes and threw them somewhere into the darkness of the room where the candlelight didn't reach. "Better?" he drawled. 

"Much better." Bard pushed himself back and took a moment to simply look at him, something he’d never really had time to do before. He rather liked what he saw. 

Catching his eye, Thranduil stretched languidly beneath him in a way that definitely wasn't coincidental, and all the more tempting for it. "I should hope so. I should also hope that you don't plan on just watching.”

He didn’t really get the chance to reply to that; a moment of marvelling that they were actually doing this in a proper bed was all it took to apparently make Thranduil decide to take matters in his own hands. 

How he ended up on his back was a bit of a mystery, albeit one Bard had no complaints about; his attention was on Thranduil's lips against his own, suddenly demanding rather than pliantly amused. He went along with it for a little while, gradually pushing for more to see how much he could get away with. It earned him a chuckle and a sharp nip to his bottom lip that stung enough to make him draw a sharp, startled breath, then another as the next bite fell against his throat. 

"I'm not wearing a high collar tomorrow because of you," he gasped, tilting back his head despite his best intentions to protest further. He felt Thranduil's laugh against him more than he heard it, and almost rolled his eyes when a line of kisses was trailed down the side of his neck, only for Thranduil to stop at the bump of his collarbone to nip and suck at the sensitive skin and raise a bruise. 

"There is no reason why you should," Thranduil told him with far too much smugness in his voice. 

Bard didn't even bother trying to put his thoughts about the irreconcilability of love bites and the presumed propriety required of a lord into words. Instead he just wound his hands into Thranduil's hair at the base of his neck with the firm intention of reining him in if there were any more attempts at leaving marks. 

He raised his head to claim a kiss, Thranduil's hand stroking up and down his side in an almost careful caress that provided a faint counterpoint. Then Bard yelped when that same hand suddenly pinched his nipple, sharp enough to spark a confusion of pain and pleasure. The latter won out when Thranduil ducked his head and soothed the sore spot with a gentle lick, though Bard couldn't quite shake the tension of anticipating another bite. He was rather looking forward to it. 

The anticipation curled low in his belly when he felt Thranduil's hand follow the crease of his thigh and he readily let his legs fall open, tilting his hips to get that touch where he wanted it.

"Such impatience." Maddeningly, Thranduil firmly gripped his thigh instead, fingers drawing small circles just a hair's width from his cock. It was enough to make Bard want to bang his head against the wall with sheer frustration. 

"I'd just like us to get somewhere before winter sets in," he quipped and tried to subtly shift so he'd finally get that hand on his cock. It just earned him another chuckle. 

"Winter is yet some days off," Thranduil said, coming along willingly when Bard dragged him up for a kiss heated enough to distract them both for a little while. "I wouldn't worry, there is plenty of time."

Bard dropped his head back into the overstuffed cushions with a groan that turned into a decidedly more pleased noise when Thranduil finally had mercy on him and closed that last bit of distance. Elves, he thought absently as he bucked his hips to rock into that wonderfully firm grip, far too much time on their hands. 

Thranduil didn't seem to be inclined towards patience anymore either, a change of mind Bard heartily appreciated. There was a time and a place for drawing things out and playing, but after weeks of recalling their shared pleasures and hoping that there'd be another opportunity for a tumble, he simply wasn't in the mood for much finesse. Thranduil in his bed, Thranduil's lips against his own in a deep kiss. Thranduil's fingers slick with oil between his thighs to ease the way, making him shudder with a heady blend of expectation and want. Thranduil rocking against him as they found a pattern together and let it carry them along. It was all he’d ask for right now, and more. 

Although, he had to admit to himself as they lay wrapped in each other afterwards, exhausted in all the right ways and content to just enjoy each other’s presence, this wasn’t something he’d want to miss either.

***

By next morning the sleet had turned into snow, a first sign of what the winter held in store for them. In his head Bard went over the supplies of firewood while they rode along the road to the gates of Erebor and cautiously deemed it enough to keep them from having to tear down the uninhabited buildings for fuel.

"Is there anything I need to do?" Bain asked him, nervousness plain in his voice. Whether it came from the prospect of participating in official negotiations or the simple fact that he was riding a horse for the first time was hard to tell, but Bard figured that a reassuring smile couldn't hurt in either case. 

"Just listen to what everybody's got to say," he told him. "I don't think you'll be asked questions, but if anyone does, simply answer them." 

"Your father is wise," Thranduil said from Bard's other side, not even pretending that he hadn't been listening. "The Dwarves won't pay much attention to you, which means that you can watch them without interruptions and tell us later what you saw. Imrahil will do the same, so you can look to him for guidance." 

Bard didn't need to turn around to the riders behind them to know that Imrahil had to be rolling his eyes. The Elf hadn't been too enthusiastic about being enlisted as an aide to his father for the day, and it probably hadn't helped that Thranduil had dropped a few comments about him needing to learn how to negotiate with Dwarves. Privately, Bard had wondered exactly who Imrahil was supposed to learn that from since all he'd witnessed of Thranduil's ability in that regard had been insults. 

When they reached the gates of Erebor, a group of Dwarves with Balin at the front stood ready to receive them. It was by far the most formal greeting Bard had ever gotten from them; normally he simply rode up to the gates, waited for someone to come get him and then followed them inside to talk to Dáin or Balin, or whoever had time to deal with him. But for this visit there were proper bows in greeting, along with a highly stilted exchange of welcomes and thanks between Balin and Thranduil. Bard got lost somewhere in all the titles and references to ancestral homelands until Balin began the entire procedure all over again with him. 

"Lord Bard of Dale and Lake-town, of the line of Girion, slayer of Smaug the Golden, we bid you welcome in Erebor for this occasion." 

Bard inwardly shook his head, wondered whether it was worth trying to cut this all short, then decided against it. At least there was definitely less to say about him than Thranduil. 

Once the horses were taken away their group was led into a hall in the Mountain Bard hadn't seen before, full of bright candles in niches in the walls and a fire burning in the hearth in one of the corners. After the freezing air and cold wind they had felt outside, the heat was almost too much at first, but Bard moved closer to the fire nonetheless. It was still hard to feel truly warm in Dale despite all the aid from the Elves, and the only time in the past weeks that Bard hadn't been cold had been when he'd had Thranduil in bed with him. Elves, Bard was discovering, were wonderfully warm.

Dáin arrived with yet another group of Dwarves clad in finely woven wool and furs, all of them looking a lot more dignified and formal than the Dwarves Bard had been dealing with so far. Bard braced himself for another round of greetings while at his side Thranduil settled into his usual straight posture, assumed a blank expression and adjusted his golden robes minutely with a well-practiced shrug that made the fabric shimmer in the candlelight.

"So the woodland fairy's decided to prance into my kingdom after all," Dáin grumbled. 

Thranduil slowly turned to face him. "As if anyone who stands barely as tall as my knee could have prevented me from doing so."

Apparently the time for formality was over. Bard heaved a sigh, caught himself in the middle of it and quickly pretended as if nothing had happened. 

Dáin stared up at Thranduil, then growled. "You bloody Elves could do with an axe to the knee. It's not like it's worth hitting your pretty heads!"

"Only because you could not reach them even if you tried."

"Bah, you're only not chickening out of this because you've got your dainty toy warriors out there. Underfed and delicate, the lot of them. Are they really the best you can do?"

"Against Dwarves? I hardly need them, every Elfling with a toy bow could handle you." 

At Bard's side, Bain cautiously stepped closer to him and tugged at the sleeve of Bard's new coat, a gift from Thranduil this morning so he'd look appropriate. "Da," he murmured, "are negotiations always like that?"

"From what I've seen, it's normal when they involve Elves and Dwarves," Bard murmured back, his eyes on the two kings. Dáin had his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, while Thranduil had his hands tucked into his finely embroidered sleeves and presented the very image of Elven haughtiness. 

"Toy bows are the best you pointy-ears can do anyway, not like you ever learned how to make proper weapons. Elvish stuff, nothing a true warrior would ever use." Dáin shook his head in derision and Bard half expected him to spit on the polished stone floor to underscore his contempt. "Delicate forest flowers. Bah. Sit down before you faint."

Somewhat to Bard's surprise, Thranduil settled on one of the three chairs at the round table in the center of the room with a flourish. "Gladly if it makes you feel more comfortable to be on the same level as me, if only in height and not other matters." 

Dáin sat as well, so Bard took the third chair with a mix of amusement and trepidation. Whatever he had imagined about formal talks between the King under the Mountain, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm and the Lord of Dale, this wasn't it. Then again, he really shouldn't have expected anything else after seeing those two on the battlefield.

Cups filled with ale were placed before them, so finely crafted that they rivalled those Thranduil used for his wine but entirely different in style with their angular, geometric patterns. Some customs clearly were the same, no matter what race, and Bard took a ritual sip to demonstrate his acceptance of the Dwarves' hospitality. The ale was bitter on his tongue, with an odd sweetness underneath, and he carefully set the cup down again as he swallowed. To his right Thranduil did the same, his mien not betraying his thoughts about the taste. 

"I've heard your proposal," Dáin opened. "Far too many of you squirrely bastards in Dale, it's completely unacceptable." 

Thranduil treated him to a mild smile. "The city needs to be protected somehow, and I'd rather not leave that to the Dwarves who were responsible for its destruction, and who failed to guard it this time around as well." 

"What's the Lord of Dale's opinion on that? Feel safe with the pointy-ears, lad?"

"They're keeping us safe, we don't have the manpower to do it by ourselves," Bard said after a moment's consideration. Dáin knew that Dale wasn't able to muster a proper defence, so that couldn't come as a surprise. "Their help has been invaluable and we are beyond grateful for it, just as we're grateful that the Dwarves are assisting in the rebuilding."

"You need proper work done, you come to us," Dáin agreed. "The Elves are good for poncy food, perhaps."

"The Dwarves are welcome to join the effort of keeping Dale supplied," Thranduil said. "Perhaps that caravan my sentries have spotted approaching from the Misty Mountains carries food to be shared? Though I pity the people of Dale if they must partake in Dwarvish fare."

Dáin's eyes had narrowed while Thranduil spoke. "My people will have safe passage through your dingy forest."

"But of course. As long as they do not step off the road and trespass on my lands." Thranduil leaned forward. "Are Dwarves capable of that? They seem to get lost so easily."

"Small wonder when you sodding fairies can't build roads worth a damn. Better if you lot pull guard duty then, that's all you're even remotely useful for." 

"So we agree on these matters as outlined in my proposal?" Thranduil asked, the drawl he'd spoken with entirely gone from his voice at a sudden. Bard eyed him cautiously in case this sudden shift to reason was a ploy of some sort. "I will continue to provide troops to ascertain the safety of the valley, as well as armed escorts for those Dwarves journeying through my realm from the Misty Mountains, provided they obey my demand that they remain on the assigned paths."

"Aye, and in turn we'll fix up the roads here, and once we've got the furnaces running properly in the foundries we'll start with the weapons." Dáin leaned back and patted the small braids in his beard. "That leaves the question of payment."

Thranduil flicked his fingers dismissively. "I will not make demands for the presence of my troops and patrols in exchange for repairs to the roads if the link between Dale and the borders of my realm is included in them. The weapons will be paid for at the rate you would charge your own people for those delivered to my realm, and at cost for what militia Dale can raise at the moment."

Dáin shook his head. "Unacceptable. We can't mine at full capacity yet. You want those terms, pixie, you wait a year."

"In a year Dale will be overrun by soldiers of fortune and you'll suffer just as much from that. It's in your interest that a local militia is set up as soon as possible. They need to be armed properly, and my troops need fresh weapons and repairs to their gear if they are to continue in their guard duty."

Dáin considered this. "Repairs we can do even when your flimsy Elven weaponry is hardly worth it. Lord Bard, what's the state of your armoury?"

"We've depleted half of it during the battle, and I don't know how useful the rest is," Bard said, grateful that the initial volley of insults had eased up somewhat. He wondered whether he'd been expected to join in, or referee like he would have done if this had been Bain and Sigrid in one of their bickering moments, rather than two supposedly high and mighty kings. 

Behind him, Imrahil cleared his throat. Turning his head, Bard looked at the Elf where he sat on one of the benches along the wall, Bain by his side as they listened. 

"If I may add something," Imrahil said in the most deferential tone Bard had ever heard of him. It immediately made him evaluate the table for its usefulness as cover in case an attack was forthcoming. 

Bard nodded for him to go ahead.

"Dale has sufficient quantities of pikes and spears, and bows will doubtlessly be supplied by the Woodland Realm," Imrahil went on. "Some swords and axes are stored in the armoury, but they will need to be sharpened at the very least. It will be enough to outfit the Men of Dale."

"And your own troops?" Thranduil asked, though he had to know the answer since they had discussed this very topic only yesterday in exhaustive detail. Bard hadn't thought anyone could spend that much time debating the relative merits of hair and sinew for bowstrings, but Thranduil's advisors hadn't had any problem with it.

"They require repairs to their armour, first and foremost. New blades in some cases, too. And what must be provided are arrowheads by the thousands, bodkins and broadheads both. Our stores are close to depleted." Not the entire truth from what they'd discussed yesterday, but probably as close to it as the Elves were ever going to admit it in front of a Dwarf. 

Dáin considered this, grimaced, then gave a wordless growl of displeasure. "Sodding Elves. Bad enough that you yourselves fight with arrows rather than proper weapons, now you've got to make others follow you in that folly."

"Highly useful, those arrows," Bard said and didn't have to even glance at Thranduil to know there'd be at least a hint of a sardonic smile on the Elvenking's face. "Excellent for slaying Orcs. Or dragons, if necessary."

"That wasn't an arrow you shot the beastie with, lad, that was a bloody harpoon," Dáin huffed. 

"I should think that to a gnome both would look the same," Thranduil drawled in turn. "But if you're unable to provide, we'll handle the arrows. Elves have been making those before the first Dwarf wondered why his head is so close to the ground even when he's standing up straight."

"You'll do no such thing. If I'm expected to rely on Elvish guards and patrols, they'll have proper weaponry, not shoddy Elf-work." Dáin shook his head. "Frizzy forest squirrels, you still think you can slay an Orc with a little lullaby and barricade doors with twigs." He paused. "Mind, I've heard your singing. You might actually be able to kill an Orc with that yammering."

"A Dwarf with an opinion on music. Will wonders ever cease." Thranduil leaned forward, the gold threads of his robes catching the candlelight. "We are agreed on the weapons as well?"

"Aye," Dáin said. "You pointy-ears patrol, we supply you at the rates we'd charge Dwarves, and Dale at cost. And you'll keep the eastern roads to the Iron Hills safe."

"As far as they're within my influence," Thranduil amended. "We will re-negotiate in the spring, once the snow has thawed."

From Dáin's face, Bard could tell that he wasn't the only one surprised by that move. Right now Thranduil held the upper hand; Dale completely depended on him at the moment and the Dwarves, too, needed his cooperation and even assistance. Which made Thranduil's concession all the stranger, because while the Elves had shown them a lot of goodwill, it wasn't pure altruism that had made them help. In spring Dale and the Lonely Mountain would find it easier to survive without the Woodland Realm's constant support, so a delay worked against them. 

Thranduil had to be up to something, and Bard suspected that he was moving faster than expected with his plans for the alliance he had mentioned yesterday. Either that, or he simply enjoyed throwing Dáin off guard and was setting up another opportunity for them to sling insults at each other so they wouldn't get bored.

"Agreed," Dáin said eventually, his eyes dark with suspicion. "And I'll have your ears if you trick us."

"As if you'd notice. Or be able to reach that high." Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee; Bard had to briefly focus on Dáin to avoid getting distracted by the memory of those long limbs wrapped around him earlier this morning. "We also must establish provisional trade agreements. Lord Bard and I require a replacement for the trade links that ran through Esgaroth, and I expect there will be a considerable need for wood in Erebor in the near future, among other matters." 

Dáin nodded. "Send someone over with your positions and demands, Balin will talk to them and give you ours. Then we'll meet again once I'm sure you flighty forest squirrels have something worth discussing."

"I will attempt to break it down enough to make it comprehensible to you," Thranduil promised kindly. 

Dáin huffed with impatience, then turned to Bard. "Make sure he doesn't screw you over, lad. Elves aren't to be trusted without a lot of safeguards all around."

***

"If you'd told me that being a leader means getting stuck at negotiation tables that much, I'd have made sure someone else got the job," Bard muttered a few days later as he and Thranduil were returning to Dale with their small entourage after an afternoon of nitpicking over water rights.

"It's all part of your duties, and you are doing fairly well at it, considering that it is your first time," Thranduil returned, then gestured in greeting as they rode through the city gate and the Elven guards bowed to their king. "You've been impressive today. I didn't consider the underground springs and neither did Dáin, by the looks of him."

Bard looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You had no reason to consider them anyway, it's not like they affect your realm. I'm half convinced that the only reason you tagged along today was so you'd get a chance to try out whatever new insults you came up with since we left yesterday."

Thranduil's expression clearly said that such a thought would never have occurred to him and that the notion was entirely beneath him. Bard figured he'd been spot on with his suspicion.

"I think I'll need your advice on those settlement issues Dáin proposed at the end," he said as they slowly made their way up along the winding streets leading to the higher levels of the city. "Are there truly Dwarves who choose not to live underground?"

"On occasion. There was a small Dwarvish community in the Dale of old, mostly because of arguments within the ruling families and Dwarvish stubbornness to find solutions to the conflicts and compromise."

Bard studiously looked at his horse's grey ears and tried to not even think the thoughts of comparable Elven stubbornness that were threatening to go through his mind. "So should I agree?" he asked instead. "We haven't had any issues with the Dwarves since the battle, but they all return to Erebor in the evenings and are only in the city during the daytime. And I don't think Imrahil's the best indicator for what to think of them. He always looks like he smells a rotting fish somewhere and that just has to be an exaggeration."

Those last words had been loud enough that Imrahil, riding behind them together with Bain, had certainly caught them. Bard resolved to be especially cautious today. In a way he was almost looking forward to it. Getting pounced on by an insane Elf was a much simpler and more straightforward matter. 

"I wouldn't invite Dwarves into my realm even under the direst of circumstances," Thranduil said with plenty of conviction in his voice, paired with a dash of hostility. Elves and Dwarves; one of these days Bard was going to have to ask just where that animosity came from and whether anyone even remembered it anymore. He'd heard legends, but all those were simply ridiculous. 

"They're not asking to settle in the Woodland Realm," he pointed out, barely scraping past calling the forest Mirkwood. That name didn't sit well with the Elves at all, as they'd found out over the past weeks when mentioning that name had caused even the most even-tempered Elves to bristle. 

Thranduil shrugged. "For you it might make sense to permit a small settlement within Dale. It can give you leverage against Dáin, should you need it."

Bard snorted at the idea, then briefly focused on guiding his horse around a tight bend with a treacherously hidden patch of hard-packed snow. Riding was becoming more familiar with every passing day, but it still wasn't something he particularly liked to do. Boats were much more reliable than horses, and they didn't startle and balk at the faintest surprise. "I'm not going to take Dwarves hostage. For one thing, where would I put them? They'll just tunnel their way out of whatever dungeon I can stick them in."

"You should come to my realm, we have proper dungeons there that can hold Dwarves."

"Unless a Hobbit turns up and lets them out." Bard didn't bother to hide his grin at the thought, which earned him a haughty glower in turn. "We've got dungeons in Dale. I'm just not very keen on the idea of using them." They had discovered Dale's underground cells already, along with the two poor bastards who'd been kept there when Smaug had devastated the city all those years ago. From the looks of it, their deaths had neither been easy nor quick. 

"You will just have to hope then that no inconsiderate bargemen seize a smuggling opportunity and spirit them away from your realm."

"If I'd known what they were up to, I might have handed them back to you. It would have spared me a world of trouble." They reached the stables and dismounted, handing the reins over to the two older men who'd taken command of Dale's few horses and were now also handling the Elves' mounts. Bard had long resolved to make sure to be there if Thranduil ever rode into the city on an elk again, just to see what they'd do. 

They walked the rest of the way up to the citadel, for once fortunate enough that it was neither raining nor snowing. Not that this had stopped Bard from making his rounds of the city; he needed to know how the rebuilding was progressing, keep an eye on how Dale's newly formed militia was coming along, and be reachable for everybody and their concerns. Locking himself away behind doors just because it was warmer and dryer there was not an option. 

Their retinue had already been left behind at the stables, and Thranduil exchanged a few words with his son in Sindarin before Imrahil gave a swift bow and departed, Bain in tow. Those two had struck up an odd accord during hours of waiting while Thranduil and Dáin insulted each other and Bard did his best not to lose his temper with two venerable kings for behaving like children. 

"How are we doing?" Bard asked once they were alone. "Really."

Thranduil considered the question for a few moments as they slowly walked along the main street, his eyes on the sky to the east. "Reasonably well. There is considerably more at stake here for you than for me, but so far I do not believe that you have made any concessions that are likely to hurt you in the future. Assuming, of course, that you intend to work with the Dwarves rather than just exist side-by-side." 

"It's not like we've got a choice in that matter. We'll need the trade revenue they'll generate. Dale can't live from farming alone, even if the valley's soil turns out to still be fertile and isn't baked solid. We tried to get a look at it, but we can’t tell yet." Bard slowed to consider one of the more damaged buildings they passed. Bain had suggested gardens on the ride back, a luxury that had been entirely impossible in Lake-town, but if they used the materials from the more desolate buildings for the better ones and cleared the space… It was something to keep in mind. 

"I may be able to assist with your fields, but I won't know before spring," Thranduil said. 

"Never attempted to re-grow something on earth that's been baked into a rock by a dragon?"

"Oddly enough, no." Thranduil studied the house as well, though he couldn't know what Bard was looking for. "I find myself doing a number of new things these days." 

Cocking his head, Bard looked at him. "I know insulting Dwarves isn't new, I've seen you do that before."

"It's a required part of negotiations with them."

"And you enjoy it."

A smile curled at the corner of Thranduil’s mouth. "Perhaps."

"Elves," Bard muttered. 

That earned him a smirk. "You're still new to all this. Give it a year or two and you'll see why a bit of creativity during diplomatic debates can be highly beneficial when you're dealing with Dwarves." He looked into the distance again, then held out his arm. A moment later a bird landed on it. 

Bard wasn't surprised by the sight of a jay perching on the Elvenking's outstretched arm, or that it calmly let Thranduil pet its head as it fluffed its wings, the bright blue flight feather edges briefly catching the sunlight. It also wasn't surprising that Thranduil spoke to it in Sindarin, because Elves were just odd that way. 

What did come as a surprise was that Bard understood the bird when it answered. 

"I come directly from Lord Calemir," it tweeted. "He reports skirmishes with bandits from the east. There are two hundred Dwarves travelling, but they have been shielded from attacks. He will keep you informed and he asks about the state of trade on the River Running."

Thranduil told the jay something in Sindarin, finishing with the upwards lilt of a question in his voice. 

"Lord Calemir is well," the jay answered. Bard couldn't really tell how it spoke; it opened its beak, but nothing should have enabled it to talk. And yet the bird did so. It wasn't even the strangest thing that had happened lately. If dragons could talk, there probably was no reason why normal birds shouldn't be able to do so. "He does not need reinforcements and he tells you that the main force winters in Dorwinion." The bird fluffed its wings once more, then shook its entire body, feathers puffing up in the cool air. 

"Thank you," Thranduil said, his fingers still carefully brushing over the bird's reddish feathers along its back. "Give my son the message that he needs to keep up his patrols and secure the eastern flank in the winter. Any Dwarves who travel from the Iron Hills are under his protection." He scratched the bird's crest once more. "Find the highest building of the city. The Elves there will have food for you before you begin your long return."

The jay clicked its beak in agreement, then took flight again, pushing Thranduil's arm slightly downwards from the force of its flapping wings. Within moments it had disappeared from sight.

"Should I ask why you can talk to birds, or why I understood it?" Bard wanted to know. "Because I did, and I don't know about Elves but for Men that is not a normal occurrence. Did you have anything to do with that?"

Thranduil tilted his head. "All Elves can speak to birds and understand them in turn."

Bard took a step forward and reached for his sleeve to get his attention, then dropped his hand again when he became aware of what he was doing and that he might get dirt on the embroidered silk. "Thranduil," he said as calmly as he could, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm not an Elf."

"Of course not.” Bard’s look of exasperation presumably was plain enough, since Thranduil went on, plucking at his sleeve with his other hand to adjust the fabric where the jay had perched, “When the people of what would become Dale chose your ancestors as their leaders, they had good reason to do so.”

Bard just rolled his eyes and refrained from voicing any complaints about Elves and their need to be cryptic. By now he’d learned that it didn’t accelerate things. “So they were capable? That’s good to know. Still doesn’t explain the bird thing.” He could have sworn that around them a few of the ubiquitous thrushes were listening, their little heads cocked in an unsettlingly sentient way. 

Thranduil followed when Bard began to walk again, falling into step by his side. “One of your ancestors must have been familiar with an Elf,” he offered as what apparently seemed a sufficient explanation to him.

Bard shot him an unimpressed glance. “Familiar,” he repeated.

Thranduil’s lips curled with the beginning of a smile. “Intimately so.”

It took Bard a moment to comprehend that little suggestion. “You’re telling me some great-great-however many great-grandfather shagged an Elf?” he demanded to know. It wasn’t unthinkable. Of course it wasn’t unthinkable - he was doing plenty of Elf-tumbling himself these days, he could hardly blame an ancestor for it. But it was still an odd thought to say the least. He fought a sudden urge to reach up and check his ears for pointiness.

“Or a great-grandmother,” Thranduil corrected, surreptitiously catching Bard’s elbow to steer him around the statue of a deer and along what Bard had come to think of as the scenic route through the less-devastated bits of Dale. “It's too far in the past for you Men to be aware of it. Long before the founding of that little waystation that eventually became Dale, a thousand years or more by your reckoning, so it won't make a difference in your life anymore."

"Aside from the fact that a jay can talk to me." Bard shook his head. An Elven ancestor somewhere? The mere idea of it was strange, even though it had to be forty generations or more ago. Far too long a timespan for anyone to recall, much less to have kept records. Bard could name his father's ancestors back to Girion, but that was mere family business and hadn't gone any further than that. Whatever had happened before that was lost to time, though the Elves might remember more. "Do you know who it was? Which Elf?"

Catching up with him, Thranduil gave a brief shrug. "I do not keep an eye on all my subjects," he said. "There have been settlements of Men within the Woodland realm since long before my father's reign, and sometimes…"

"Things happened?"

"Things happened," Thranduil agreed. "Half-elven children, with just a touch of the graces granted to Elves by Eru Ilúvatar. Over the generations much of those gifts would have become lost, but some linger more than others."

"I understand birds, but don't have the pointy ears?" Bard asked, still trying to think this through. 

Thranduil tilted his head. "Pointy ears?"

Bard glanced at the Elf's ears. "I might have developed a certain fondness of them lately, so I'm paying more attention," he offered. "You know, I thought sometimes that I heard birds talk, but never anything like this. Mostly I thought I heard them say 'hawk'. I mentioned it to Percy once and he figured I'd simply had too much ale." Which might not have been an entirely inaccurate assessment, but that was neither here nor there.

"Normally they don't have much to say that is of interest to us." They turned around the corner into the main square and Thranduil spared a brief nod for the Elves there who greeted him. "I assume they never saw a need to speak to you before."

"Pity, I could have used the company on some of the longer trips." A thought occurred to him. "Shouldn't the rest of the people understand them too? I'm pretty certain I'm related to half of Lake-town in some way. If there's an Elvish ancestor, we'd all have the same one."

"These matters weaken over the years. In his time, Girion was one of the few left who could speak to them and it may have been lost even further since then. Almost all of his lineage died in the destruction of Dale, and few of the city's inhabitants made it out alive. As far as I am aware, you and your children are his last living descendants, so it may be limited to you by now."

Or to a few more who all figured that it was best not to mention an ability to chat with pigeons and have them talk back, since that didn't exactly inspire confidence in one's sanity. "My children can do it? The girls?"

A faint smile on his face, Thranduil seemed to guess his thoughts. "I'll ask them to try once I return."

"It's going to save you a lot of paper. Sigrid's gotten wordy in her last few letters." Bard had treasured every sentence she'd written and her letters were safely tucked away in a small box by his bed, even the earliest ones where her words still sounded sad and formal. The Woodland Realm might be the safest place for her and Tilda, but that didn't mean that he couldn't miss his daughters and that they couldn't miss him.

"Sigrid is welcome to what paper she requires," Thranduil said, then raised his head to glance up at the sky where clouds were gathering once more. "But the opportunity for letters will soon cease. Another two or three days, then the snow will fall in earnest and the paths will be blocked." 

Bard looked at him. "I assume you aren't planning on spending the winter here." He'd miss his presence, for his company and advice, and also for far more mundane matters. For one thing, Thranduil was wonderfully warm to curl up against in bed when the air was cold enough for their breaths to cloud. Bard had spent the past few nights with his nose tucked into the crook of Thranduil's neck and his hands kept warm between them.

"Much as I appreciate your hospitality, I don't intend to remain. We will depart the day after tomorrow, it's the latest I dare. Whatever negotiations we haven't settled by then will need to wait until spring." 

They slowly circled the square, letting everybody see them speak. By now Bard's people were used enough to the Elves currently stationed in Dale that they no longer batted an eye at co-operating with them, but it was still useful to show them that the Elvenking was on their side, taking an interest and that Bard trusted him. At the very least it would calm any concerns over all the children and infirm who were wintering in his realm. Not everybody was fortunate enough to have received news, and Bard knew that he wasn't the only one to worry about someone far away these days. 

"Surely there can't be much left for us to discuss," Bard said. They came close to the fountain and he saw the shine of ice on the stones. Winter indeed. "We've settled patrols, food supplies, weapons, road maintenance, farming rights for the plain, water rights, mining, settlements, ale brewing and I'm still not sure why you even got involved in that given that none of you Elves like the stuff... "

Thranduil treated him to a slow smirk. "We have barely scratched the surface," he said, blithely ignoring Bard's quiet groan at that. "But most other matters can wait. You'll have the winter to prepare for those. I'll give you a list."

Bard was beginning to suspect that the sole reason why he'd been stuck with the lordship of Dale was that nobody else wanted to bother with the minutiae of actually running the place. In the past he'd never spent much time wondering what it was that lords and ladies, let alone kings, did beyond lounging about in their fine robes and with silly crowns on their heads. Now that he was finding out just what it entailed, it all looked a lot less glamorous. 

"You better be ready to listen to any birds I send," he told Thranduil. "I'm going to have a lot of questions."

***

For a creature who, by his own account, didn't require sleep, Thranduil seemed to quite enjoy doing it when the opportunity presented itself. If it weren't such a waste to keep a light lit during the night, Bard could have watched him sprawled naked across the froofy cushions, his pale skin in stark contrast to the strong colours. It had been a good look earlier that night when the small lamp had still been burning, before they'd let themselves get distracted by more physical pleasures.

In the darkness he slowly moved closer, carefully sliding an arm across Thranduil's bare chest as he curled against his right side. A half-awake murmur, then Thranduil turned a little before settling into sleep once more as soon as Bard drew the covers up around them. Elves might not get cold but they certainly appreciated the feeling of finely woven sheets, and right now Bard was quite happy to share in the sensation and be able to avoid the scratchy blankets he was accustomed to. 

It was odd how quickly he'd grown used to having Thranduil in his bed. A mere week and yet the Elf's quiet breathing was familiar already, just like the faint scent of clean spring water and herbs from the bath he'd insisted on earlier. An incredibly wasteful habit, in Bard's mind, though he couldn't help appreciating the luxury of hot water in such quantities. He still refused to have the water changed for himself when it had only been used by one single Elf - who never got dirty or sweaty anyway - and Thranduil still looked aghast at the notion, but had at least stopped ordering his attendants to do away with the water and re-fill the basin before Bard could have a quick wash.

Perhaps they really should look into the rumours that houses in Dale of old had been supplied with running water, not just cold but also warm. Bard had seen the old public baths in the lower part of town; some of the basins were still connected to the pipes that diverted the water from the springs, though it was all cold and starting to freeze by now. The Dwarves might know more, since the pipes clearly had been created by them. 

Absently combing his fingers through the fine strands of Thranduil's hair, Bard considered the idea. It couldn't take any immediate priority, not with so many other matters to deal with first that were more important to their survival. They had functioning wells by now and some of the fountains had been restored, too, that had to be enough. Warm water might be pleasant, but it would be too much of a luxury when they needed to handle less glamorous and more practical things first, like clearing streets from rubble and fixing the sewers. The latter, when explained by some of the Dwarves, had been a slightly baffling concept to most of the people, who were used to Lake-town's far more straightforward system. Apparently Dale had even had fancy ways of disposing of waste.

"Is there a particular reason why you are awake?" Thranduil murmured in the darkness, his voice rough with sleep. 

Bard rested his head against Thranduil's shoulder. "Just thinking."

"About something important, I hope, if it keeps you from sleep at this time of the night." With a rustle of the sheets Thranduil turned towards him, a hand reaching out to find Bard's with surprising accuracy, or perhaps the aid of Elvish night vision. "I have been reliably informed that Men require their rest. Several times, quite vocally."

"Some rest is appreciated," Bard told him, shifting to tangle their legs together. "And I was thinking about baths."

That earned him a quiet huff that might have been the beginning of a laugh. "I knew you would see reason eventually. Dale could turn into a civilised place after all." 

Bard aimed a light punch at Thranduil's shoulder, then shoved him back into the cushions. Judging by the soft thud, at least one of the frivolous things scattered to the floor. "I should take offense on behalf of my city." 

"Perhaps you should," Thranduil teased. "What would the Lord of Dale have me do in recompense to such a grievous affront?"

"I'll have to think about it," Bard returned, readily letting himself be pulled in for a kiss that soon distracted him from all thoughts about bath water and turned his attention to far more immediate matters. Like the firm grip of Thranduil's hand on his hip, the quick, sharp nip to the juncture of his neck and shoulder followed by a soothing flick of Thranduil’s tongue. 

"I'm certain we can come up with something suitable," Thranduil murmured against his throat and Bard felt smooth fingers wander up along the length of his inner thigh, slowly teasing until they drew a quiet groan from him. "Maybe a precious manuscript from my library, or a barrel of Dorwinion's best wine…"

"As long as it's a full one and not one you expect me to return downriver." He rose up to straddle Thranduil's hips and bring them closer together, hands braced against the cushions on either side of the Elf's head as he leaned in to claim another leisurely kiss. Tomorrow this would be out of reach for the remainder of the winter, so he tried to draw it out and commit every touch, scent and taste to memory, just in case. 

Thranduil seemed to catch on to his mood; his touches slowed a little though his definite interest was hard to miss. "Perhaps not wine, then," he suggested, his lips brushing against Bard's as he spoke. "A bow and arrows might be an acceptable gift, crafted by my people and second to none other in all of Middle-Earth."

"Tempting," Bard whispered back, one hand tangling in Thranduil's hair at his temple, thumb tracing the delicately tipped ear. It got him the response he'd already learned to expect from that caress: a happy sigh and an invitingly bared throat that was sensed more than seen. Briefly he rubbed their cheeks together before bowing his head to find that spot at the junction of neck and shoulder where he knew he'd left a mark yesterday, a startling sight against the unblemished skin. When Bard's first tentative lick was greeted with a pleased hum he grew bolder, sucking and nipping until he imagined could feel the heat against his tongue. The mark would be gone by morning, but that wasn't the point; it was far more arousing to know that Thranduil would allow this and to feel him turn smooth and pliant under Bard's explorations. 

"Hm, perhaps not a bow after all..." Thranduil murmured with a buck of his hips, then gasped when that earned him a sharp bite from Bard, followed by a soothing nuzzle. 

"I like bows." Shifting, Bard worked his knee between Thranduil's thighs and felt them fall open at the lightest pressure. 

"A bow it is, then." Thranduil's hands came up to frame Bard's face and tilt up his head enough so they could kiss comfortably, then drew back again. "And a fine horse to ride, fit for a lord..."

Bard licked the thumb resting against his lips, then sucked it into his mouth and drew a moan from Thranduil that went straight to his groin. "It's not horses I'm interested in riding right now," he murmured.

"Is that so?" Thranduil murmured back and he could easily imagine the no doubt raised eyebrows and faintly intrigued look, and wished he'd taken the time to light a candle. It would be such a decadent waste of precious wax, but the sight would have been well worth it. "Then by all means…"

It was an invitation Bard was hardly going to ignore. Leaning forward, he reached out in the dark and found Thranduil’s arms, let his hands wander up to his shoulders for balance and bent to claim his mouth, not quite demanding but with plenty of purpose behind the kiss. He could have gotten lost in the growing familiarity of this closeness, the slow slide of their bodies against one another, and for a little while he just focused on coaxing quiet sounds of pleased contentment from Thranduil’s lips. 

He felt the flex of Thranduil's thighs as he shifted his hips against Bard's, languidly at first but then with growing determination. The friction was enough to send shivers down Bard's spine that Thranduil seemed able to sense and chase with his fingertips, the touch almost light enough to tickle. Bard let him explore, happily arching his back into the caresses. 

"I believe you said something about your intentions," Thranduil whispered in his ear, their cheeks resting against one another. 

"Such impatience," Bard murmured in reply, turning his head enough that Thranduil was bound to feel the scratch of beard stubbles against his unblemished skin. The little gesture had the expected effect, one Bard had discovered during their past nights together; a hiss, a contented sigh as Thranduil rubbed their cheeks together once more before sliding their mouths together in a soft press of lips. 

"Merely appreciation," Thranduil countered, shifting again to make Bard settle between his thighs. 

Eyebrows raised at that rather blatant demand, Bard laughed as he did his best to hold still and not give in to that delicious friction all too easily. It was a matter of principle, after all, never mind that his cock had quite different ideas. "I think there might be another word for it."

"If you wish to argue semantics..." Thranduil caught his hand, lacing their fingers together in another spot of bright contact. Bard felt him stretch beneath him and lean away, muscles bunching at the confusing movement until the light scrape of glass against wood and the sound of a stopper being removed from a vial provided an explanation. 

"I'm not arguing," he hissed as Thranduil's hand slipped down between them and wrapped around Bard's cock to draw a groan from him, not at all surprised but with a shock of pleasure nonetheless. For a few breaths he let the strokes continue, luxuriating in the sensations they coaxed from him, then claimed the oil and put an end to the teasing. 

Their movements lacked the urgency that had pushed them earlier that night and Bard rather enjoyed the more languid pace as they moved together, sharing gasps and moans and sparks of pleasure. It would have to last them a while, he knew, the winter at the very least; that awareness was enough for him to draw Thranduil even closer and savour every moment. 

The winter was indeed going to be a long one.

***

A few days after Thranduil's departure, Bard once more found himself horizontal and at the mercy of a smirking Elf, though not nearly in as pleasurable a way.

"Better," Imrahil pronounced cheerfully, his knee digging sharply into the small of Bard's back to keep him flat on the ground. "Though you're still dead."

"No need to sound so happy about that," Bard muttered and tried to push himself up, but quickly discovered that Imrahil's hold on him was immovable. Elves might be lighter than Men of the same size, but their deceptively slight frames held far greater strength. "You only got me this time because I didn't want to hurt you." 

It wasn't even an excuse. For once Bard had actually seen him coming and had been ready. He was reasonably sure that if he'd tried, Imrahil would now be lying on the rocky ground at the foot of the city walls and wonder how he'd gotten there. But that might have injured the demented bastard, depending on how well Elves bounced, and Bard suspected that Thranduil might have something disapproving to say about that. 

"You need to stop holding back." Imrahil finally got off him and kindly offered him a hand. Bard pointedly ignored it as he scrambled to his feet to get off the icy walkway on top of the wall. "For all you know, I might be the one to try and assassinate you."

Wiping his hands clean on his coat, Bard glowered at him. "You're the only one who tries that these days, Princess."

"Fortunately for you," Imrahil said, then moved so quickly that all Bard saw was a blur before he once again hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him as he landed flat on his back. Imrahil leisurely pointed a dagger at him that had been sheathed a moment ago. 

Bard glared up at him and struggled to draw a steady breath. He was beginning to see the appeal of the Dwarves' insistence on insulting Elves out of sheer principle.

Imrahil cast him a bright smile. "You really should have seen that coming."

His eyes on the tip of the dagger in case killing him twice wasn't enough, Bard slowly sat up. The chill of the flagstones was creeping through his clothes and his back ached from getting knocked down not once but twice in a row. 

Sodding Elves.

"Da?" he suddenly heard from behind himself. "Da!"

Bard quickly turned his head to the rather unexpected sight of Bain, a drawn bow and nocked arrow in his arms. His son was aiming at Imrahil, his expression somewhere between determination and fear. 

"You let him go right now!" Bain shouted. 

When Bard glanced back at Imrahil, the Elf was slowly raising his hands, the grip on his dagger loose-fingered and as unthreatening as it could be. 

"It's all right, son," Bard called, his voice pitched to be calming as he got to his feet. It took some effort not to wince at the bruises doubtlessly forming on his arse, but he did his best to ignore those. The last thing he needed was for Baim to stick an arrow into the leader of the Elves here in Dale, never mind how proud the sight might make him feel. "Practice, nothing else." 

"You're sure?" Bain asked, his stance steady. 

"Yes. Put the bow down, Bain, I think you're making him nervous."

Imrahil smartly kept his mouth shut at that and merely held still until Bain lowered his bow and withdrew the arrow from the string. Then he swiftly sheathed his dagger and cast Bard a fleeting smile. "Your son is better at this than you, at least he's remembered to arm himself."

Bain frowned at him. "We were going to practice archery. I don't carry my bow all the time."

"It isn't the most practical weapon anyway, no matter what your father might say." Imrahil looked Bain over, a contemplative expression on his face. "You'll grow a good deal more. The sword should be a suitable weapon for you, as long as you begin to work with it in earnest soon."

"He's good with a bow," Bard said firmly. And Bain truly was; he had that touch of talent that, combined with practice, would make the difference between a good archer and a great one. 

"Which doesn't mean that he should only learn to use one weapon." Again Imrahil looked Bain over. "I've seen you with a sword on the day of the battle."

Bain nodded. "I wasn't very good with it."

"You kept your sisters safe," Bard protested, stepping close to his son to draw him into a brief one-armed hug against his side, onlooking Elf prince be damned. Bain leaned against him a little, so the gesture clearly wasn't entirely unwelcome; Bard fought the urge to affectionately ruffle his boy's hair. "And killed four Orcs."

"Laudable," Imrahil said, and the agreeable tone of his voice put Bard on guard. "Which only makes it more important that he be trained properly." He paused, then sketched a slight bow. "I am willing to offer my services in that area."

Bard opened his mouth to refuse, but before he could do so he felt Bain straighten at Imrahil’s words and when he glanced at his son's face, all he saw was hopeful eagerness. 

Rationally, Imrahil wasn't a bad choice, never mind Bard's personal feelings about the matter. The Elf was an excellent fighter and certainly knew his way around a sword a lot better than Bard could ever hope to. In all of Dale there probably was nobody among their own people to match him, and if it had to be an Elf who taught Bain, it might just as well be this one. Besides, even with the distractions of negotiations and planning and Thranduil and a thousand other small matters on his mind, Bard hadn't missed the fact that Bain had spent much of the past week at Imrahil's side in the background during the talks with the Dwarves. Apparently proximity had bred familiarity.

"You'll still practice archery with me," he told Bain sternly. "No matter what Imrahil says."

Imrahil glanced at him, a slow smirk on his lips. "You're adequate with a bow," he conceded. 

Bard raised an eyebrow. "I shot a dragon."

"Big creatures, dragons." Imrahil looked down at the sleeve of his finely tailored tunic and brushed away a speck of dust only visible to Elves. "Very hard to miss."

"So even you might be able to hit one if you're lucky, Princess?" Bard shot back.

Imrahil merely quirked an eyebrow at him, for a moment the very image of his father despite his dark hair. "I'll leave those creatures to mortal Men, you appear to have something of an affinity with them if history is any indication." 

Bard wasn't quite certain what he was hinting at. Some of the legends and myths, doubtlessly, but he couldn't piece it together from what he knew of the tales. Another matter to add to the list of things that needed his attention at some point, though this was a fairly unimportant one even if it might help to make a little more sense of the Elves sometimes.

He was saved from having to come up with a comeback by the sound of Percy calling his name from somewhere further up in the city, and a moment later the man was looking down at them from the top level ramparts. 

"There's a few Dwarves here to see you, Bard," he called down. "They're a bit frazzled, I think. They sure aren't up to their usual standards, they haven't insulted any of the Elves even once. It's confusing the Elves, too."

Bard and Imrahil exchanged a swift glance. 

"Better see what the beardy moles are confused about this time," Imrahil said. "Though it might be anything that baffles them."

***

The Dwarves were indeed something that might be called frazzled. They also had sent Bofur to lead the small delegation, which was a clear sign that whatever was going on, Dáin wasn't certain that he wanted to make it his problem. Even after his coronation, the Dwarves who had gone on the quest for the Lonely Mountain with Thorin were a separate group and by now Bard had a fairly good idea of what it meant when he was faced with one of them rather than one of Dáin's followers from the Iron Hills.

Bard herded them into the great hall, got them seated around the old map table from Thranduil's tent they'd permanently borrowed and poured them cups of the wine the Elves had left behind. Imrahil quietly bristled at the scene, clearly unhappy at wasting precious vintages on Dwarves, but Bard studiously ignored him while he observed the customs of hospitality. They all paid scrupulous attention to these gestures; even Thranduil never declined offers of food or drink from the Dwarves. Under the circumstances Bard wasn't about to start a diplomatic incident just because Imrahil didn't feel like sharing his Dorwinion red with the neighbours.

"Does the Elf have to stay?" one of the Dwarves asked. 

Imrahil sharply stepped forward. "You won't send me away, Dwarf. Not when my King has commanded me to be here."

"Of course, just a servant taking orders. Can't think for yourself with that pretty head, can you?"

Apparently the Dwarves' confusion had lessened enough for at least a few insults already, though Bard had heard much more creative ones over the past days. Rolling his eyes, he raised his hands in what he hoped would be seen as a placating gesture.

"I'd ask you to keep the peace under my roof," he said, ignoring the way the Dwarves and Imrahil glanced up at the tent canvas that sheltered them in lieu of the still missing roof tiles. "What is it the King under the Mountain requires?"

Bofur cleared his throat, and at that sound the Dwarves fell silent. "We have an unexpected situation," he said slowly. "An intruder we don't know what to do with."

Bard suppressed a sigh. If any of his people had been foolish enough to try and sneak into the Lonely Mountain, he'd set them on duty to clean out the sewers for the winter. The last thing he needed right now was an aggravation of the careful balance between Dale and Erebor. The help of the Elves might be what kept them going right now, but if the Dwarves decided that the Men of Dale weren't reliable enough as trading partners, Bard might as well take his people and see if someone else had a use for a few hundred stubborn and slightly aggravating souls. It would put them at the mercy of Alfrid, and the mere thought made his stomach turn.

Damn it, when had his life reached a point that he needed to worry about these matters?

"Where's that intruder now?" he asked. 

"We caught her last night. That's when we figured it's a wee bit more complicated than just some fool wandering through our halls." Bofur drank from his wine and pulled a face. "You need some proper stuff, not this Elven swill. We'll send you ale, can't let this sorry state continue. It's not right that you should live in squalor."

"Ale, as if anyone needed more proof that Dwarves have no taste," Imrahil muttered. Bard shot him a look that was primly ignored. He rather liked the idea of ale; the wine was nice, no arguing that, but it was considerably more fancy than what Bard would normally choose.

Bofur thumped the wine cup down on the table, scattering a few drops. "Aye, ale. A proper drink, makes you strong and puts some hair on your chest." He grinned at Imrahil. "Perhaps not yours, though. Never figured out whether it works on Elf maidens."

"It clearly addles the minds of weaker creatures, like Dwarves."

Bard sighed and leaned forward, his hands firmly planted on the polished wood of the table. "I have three children who don't bicker nearly as much as you do, I don't need you to make up for that now. What's with that intruder? Who is it?"

Bofur looked distinctly uncomfortable. "An Elf."

Imrahil shot to his feet, blazing with sudden rage. "You will release that Elf immediately!"

Bofur didn't even flinch, Bard had to give him credit for that. "And how're you going to make me?"

"I'd lop your head off, Dwarf," Imrahil spat," if it were not so close to the ground!"

"You think you can take me on without an army of your pointy-eared pixie friends?"

"As if you'd stand a chance against me!"

"One Elf? I won't even break a sweat!"

"Big words for such a miserable little creature!"

"I'll show you misery!"

"Silence!" Bard bellowed. 

It was enough to shut up both Imrahil and Bofur, at least for a moment. But with abilities honed by years of raising three children who, though well-behaved most of the time, still squabbled like all siblings, a moment was all he needed. 

"You are going to stop this right now," he ordered before either of them could get a word in. "I don't have time for this nonsense. Imrahil, sit down and shut up. And you," he pointed at Bofur, "explain that bit about an Elf you caught."

The expression on Imrahil's face was murderous for the time it took Bard to draw a breath and exhale again, then it turned carefully, entirely blank as he remained standing. It was as much concession as the Elf was ever going to give him, Bard figured, and decided not to push his luck. 

"We knew someone'd been sneaking around for a few days," Bofur said with a cautious look at Imrahil before he focused on Bard. "We found the entrance they used, and we thought it was some foolish child from Dale, perhaps. We knew it couldn't be an Orc." 

"How?" Bard wanted to know.

"No Orc can enter Erebor without us being aware of it, you may take my word for that." Bofur waved his hand in a way that made it clear he wasn't going to elaborate. "So we started to flush them out. Nobody who's never lived in Erebor knows all the halls; all we needed to do was close them off one by one. Took us two days to trap her. Imagine our surprise when we didn't have a youth from Dale but an Elf." He paused. "That Elf, too."

"That Elf?" Bard asked. "What Elf?"

Bofur looked uneasy, but eventually answered. "The one who helped us fix Kíli at your house."

It took Bard a moment to remember her name, though he recalled her face and her red hair easily enough. "Tauriel?" 

Bofur nodded. "You know her?" he asked and sounded suspiciously relieved about that.

"She kept my daughters safe when the dragon came."

"As did we," Bofur said. 

Bard met his eyes. "I don't remember you doing much for them after you took them to shore. I believe you were rather in a hurry at the time to get to your share of the treasure. I guess you were not the only one the gold turned into a fool that day." 

To his credit, Bofur didn't look proud of himself at the reminder.

"So what are you doing with her?" Bard asked. "She made sure that you got out, too, from what my children told me, and she rescued you from the Orcs. You should be treating her well, not keep her prisoner."

There was the hint of a smile on Imrahil's face at that, so fleeting that Bard might just have imagined it. But given that Bofur's unease was increasing, the sodding Elf was probably loving this.

"Lord Dáin doesn't know that, and it won't make a difference to him. She's an Elf, he wants her gone from the Mountain." Bofur exchanged glances with the other Dwarves around the table, then turned back to Bard. "And he wants the Elvenking to vouch for her. There have been… threats from her that she'll creep back in, and that just won't do, an Elf loose in Erebor."

Bard nodded. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure Lord Imrahil will be happy to give you his word that he'll keep an eye on her."

"No, I won't," Imrahil said firmly. He met Bard's quizzical look. "I cannot."

Bard took a slow breath and reminded himself that kicking the irritating bastard in front of the Dwarves would not be diplomatic, never mind how satisfying it might be. "Why not?"

"The King banished her." 

"So?"

"So she is no longer one of his subjects. He won't guarantee her actions." 

Bard inwardly rolled his eyes and reached for the last shreds of his patience. "He doesn't need to. You're the leader of the Elves here in Dale, you can vouch for her." 

"I am still beholden to my king," Imrahil said, his voice carefully void of all emotion. "What part of that is so hard to understand to you? She is banished, she is no longer counted among the Elves of the Woodland Realm. I cannot go against his command." 

"She's one of your own, doesn't that count for anything?" Bard demanded. "Do you so easily abandon your people?" 

"The King-"

"Isn't here right now. You are." Certainly Thranduil wouldn't leave one of his own to the Dwarves of all people, that couldn't be acceptable to him out of sheer principle. A banishment could be rescinded and Bard had no doubt that Thranduil would do so if it let him annoy the Dwarves even for a moment.

"I cannot," Imrahil repeated. 

"You'll leave her a prisoner then? Leave her behind? I've come to expect more of Elven loyalty."

"What do you know of loyalty?" Imrahil hissed.

Bard refused to back down. "More than you, clearly."

"You understand nothing," Imrahil said, managing to retreat back to his usual cool and haughty demeanour, though there was plenty of derision in his voice now. "Tauriel has been a friend to me since your ancestors still shared a scraggly cave with their goats. But I have sworn an oath of loyalty to my king and my people. She's broken hers, I will not break mine. Can you even comprehend what that would mean, Lord of Dale? You have led your gaggle of dirty fishermen for a few weeks, what do you know of all that it takes for a realm to survive? You need us, you would all perish within days without us. And you think you can lecture me about loyalty?"

The words struck hard, just as Imrahil had to have intended, but Bard refused to let him see. "I know I don't leave any of mine behind."

"You are a fool," Imrahil told him. 

Bard shrugged. "Not for the first time, or the last. And if I'm already being foolish…" He looked at the Dwarves, who had been wise enough not to interrupt the brief argument between him and Imrahil. He wondered what kind of image that had presented, then decided that after all the more or less veiled insults traded back and forth between Thranduil and Dáin, he didn't care. "Bofur, tell Dáin I'll give my word that Tauriel will not set foot in the Lonely Mountain without his leave." 

Imrahil turned to stare at him. "You cannot."

"And why not? You won't have her, the Dwarves won't have her. Dale needs anyone with a solid head on their shoulders and a working pair of hands. She's saved my children, in my eyes that's more than enough to earn her a place in Dale." There hadn't been time for Bard to speak to her in those chaotic few hours at the Long Lake's shore, but his children had told him much about her during the hard walk to Dale. If she needed a place now… well, Dale had plenty of that to offer, so why not add an Elf to their small population if she was willing to come.

Imrahil studied him for a moment, then smoothly rose from his chair without even a glance for the Dwarves. "I do hope that you know what you are doing, Lord of Dale," he said as he left.

***

It had been snowing long enough during the night that the road was barely visible when Bard rode to the Lonely Mountain's gates the next morning. All tracks from yesterday had vanished and even the roadside markers were beginning to disappear under the snow. They'd managed to keep the road reasonably clear so far, mostly thanks to a few dozen Dwarves traveling back and forth between Erebor and Dale on a daily basis, but once the snow began in earnest it would take a lot more effort than that.

Bard's mare wasn't too eager about the ground, but by now horse and rider were accustomed enough to each other that it didn't take too much convincing to make her move after an initial snort of disdain at the cold snow she was supposed to wade through. In a way Bard was glad that he only understood birds, not horses; he suspected this one wouldn't have a lot of friendly things to tell him right now. 

The Dwarves had made considerable progress with the gates since the last time Bard had seen them a week ago. The moat had been cleared out and most of the shattered wall segments repaired; there still were piles of rubble to the side, but probably not for long. Dwarves and rubble didn't go well together, the people of Dale had learned by now - either the material was still useful and therefore had to be sorted and properly stacked for storage, or it was useless and thus needed to be removed to where it wouldn't be noticed. There was a lot of brick sorting happening in Dale these days in order to keep the Dwarves happy.

There were sentries posted on the top of the wall as usual, and Bard didn't even bother calling up to them anymore. They'd have spotted him halfway from Dale already and announced his arrival, so he simply reined in his horse and waited. For a moment he considered dismounting, but decided against standing around in ankle-deep snow. Besides, the threshold of the newly constructed gates had been raised enough that he'd be on eye level with any Dwarf who came out even if he remained on his horse. 

It didn't take too long before the gates opened and Bofur appeared, wrapped in furs against the weather. 

"Lord Bard," the Dwarf greeted him, and Bard nodded his head in response. "We hoped you'd come today. You'll still take her?"

That was a bit direct even for Dwarves, in Bard's still limited but growing experience. "Unless anything has changed?"

Bofur looked briefly uneasy. "No, no. Your word that she won't come back without permission, that's all we ask." 

Frowning, Bard studied the Dwarf. "Lord Dáin does know about this, doesn't he?"

"Of course," Bofur hastened to assure him. "He agrees, too."

"So what's the matter?" Three children. Bard knew when someone was trying to get away with something and Bofur was worse at hiding it than even Bain had ever been. 

Bofur was positively fidgeting by now. "Nothing. Óin has gone to fetch her." 

Bard considered that, then asked, "He was with you and my children when the dragon came, wasn't he?" Along with Fíli and Kíli, but he didn't add their names. 

Bofur nodded. 

"And now he just happens to be the one to assist you in this?" Bard pretended to be busy with brushing snowflakes off his horse's white mane for a few moment. "You're certain Dáin is aware of what you're doing?"

Ah, there it was, the briefest hint of consternation on Bofur's face. "Mostly?"

Bard leaned forward in the saddle, a kind smile on his face. "And what wouldn't he know about?"

Bofur hurriedly glanced up at the guards on top of the wall, then stepped closer to Bard. "Just that Óin's not taking the shortest way to the gates, that's all. It's nothing you need to be concerned about, it's only... " Bofur sighed. "She's been good to us, she's helped. It's not her fault what happened. And she's only sneaked into Erebor because she wanted to say goodbye to Kíli. She couldn't, see? Not when she wasn't allowed with the Elves, and Lord Dáin won't let any pointy-ears into the Mountain if it isn't something official."

It took some effort to make sense of this. "I take it the slightly longer way involves going deep underground?" Where the tombs of Thorin and his heirs were, hidden away in the darkness deep inside the Mountain. 

"It might," Bofur said carefully. 

In a way it was reassuring to know why Tauriel had been trespassing, as sad a reason as it was. Bard wouldn't have left her behind, not when he was so far in her debt for saving his children first from Orcs and then the devastation of Lake-Town. But it might have been more difficult to decide what to do with her if her motives had been different. Having to watch out for Imrahil's assassination attempts was bad enough already without having to watch his back because of yet another Elf who was skulking around.

"Anything else I should know that Dáin hasn't been told?"

Bofur shrugged. "Not really? Well, I don't think he knows that Tauriel was at your house with us, but that hardly matters now."

"Not after it burned and sank," Bard agreed mildly and saw Bofur wince at that. "My children will be glad to see her again. They've been wondering what happened to her after the battle."

And they had been resigned to the simple fact that she'd died when nobody had seen her anymore. Too many had been lost that day, and Bard knew that the Elves hadn't been able to find all of their own on the battlefield. With the people of Dale it had been even more difficult; they hadn't even known for sure who'd made it out of Lake-Town alive, only to go missing in the chaos of the fight. Tauriel had only been one among many who couldn't be accounted for. 

"I think she's been roughing it up on the slopes," Bofur said. "Too steep for Dwarves or Orcs, but the Elves get up that sheer rock face like mountain goats so the sentries didn't spot her. She certainly looks like she's been out on her own." 

Bofur's assessment turned out to be more than accurate when Óin came through the gates, followed by the scruffiest Elf Bard had ever seen. Her clothes were dirty and torn in places, her green coat muddied, her hair a single reddish-brown tangle. There even were smudges of dirt on the pale skin of her face and hands. 

Bard had dealt with a lot of Elves lately. Not all of them were as fastidious as Thranduil about washing and changing their clothes more than once a day, but they all had an overall cleanliness in common. Elves didn't get dust in their hair or dirt on their faces. They didn't tolerate mud spatters on their clothes and nature seemed to be well aware of that, because they could stay practically unblemished while the Men working side by side with them looked as though they'd been trudging through a swamp the entire day.

He wondered whether all was well here.

"My Lord Bard," Óin greeted him while Tauriel ignored them all. "How good of you to come. You should leave now."

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Or questions might be asked that you don't want to answer?"

"You won't need to smuggle her in a barrel of fish, at least," Bofur said, gently pushing her forward, down towards the steps. "Less of a smell."

Tauriel hesitated, then turned around to rest her right hand above her heart for a moment before extending it towards the two Dwarves in a brief, jerky gesture. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice rough as if she hadn't spoken for a while.

"You'll be all right," Óin told her. "Lord Bard'll take you to Dale, there's plenty of other Elves there." 

Bard thought he saw a flash of dismay on Tauriel's face, but she didn't say anything, she simply came down the steps and stopped at the horse's side. Bringing a second mount clearly would have been the smart thing to do, but having even one horse was a novel enough idea that Bard felt he could be forgiven for the oversight. So he just held out his hand to her and pulled her up behind him when she took it. 

"Do give my regards to King Dáin," he said to the Dwarves, then nudged the horse into a slow canter, back towards Dale. 

For more than half the distance they rode in silence, Tauriel barely holding on to him with a loose grip of one hand to his shoulder. Bard let her be; whatever was on her mind clearly weighed heavy enough to occupy her thoughts. 

He probably should inform Thranduil about somewhat accidentally acquiring one of his Elves. Doubtlessly Imrahil had already done so; there were daily bird dispatches going back and forth between the Elves in Dale and Mirkwood now that the roads were no longer passable. But Imrahil would only have sent his interpretation of events and not bother with any explanations Bard might have for it. Then again, were explanations needed? As far as Bard could tell, either Tauriel was one of Thranduil's subjects, in which case he was doing the Elvenking a favour by getting her away from the Dwarves. Or she wasn't, which had to mean that the Elves had no claim on her anymore anyway.

"I didn't know you were a lord," Tauriel said when they had covered half the distance, her words almost too quiet for him to catch.

Bard shrugged, knowing that she'd feel the movement of his shoulder under her hand. "Me neither. It happened."

"A lot happened," she offered after a brief silence.

He hummed in agreement. "I should thank you," he said, slowing the horse to a walk to give them the opportunity to speak without even keen Elven ears overhearing. "You saved my children."

Her grip on his shoulder tightened for an instant before relaxing again. "They are well?"

"All three of them. Bain is here in Dale with me, he's been having a lot of good ideas on how to handle the rebuilding and he's getting good at all kinds of carpentry work. If I'd known, I'd have let him handle repairs a lot earlier. I'm proud of him, he's doing well." 

Tauriel didn't say anything at that, just sat quietly behind him. If it hadn't been for the faint sound of her breathing, Bard might have thought she wasn't there at all. 

"I haven't seen Tilda and Sigrid for a few weeks now, but they are fine, too." Or so he kept assuring himself; it was hard not to grow concerned now that there no longer was a way to exchange letters or hear from the messengers, and so far there hadn't been any birds. "The last I heard from Tilda was that she's been learning Elvish dances. I wonder how she's doing at those, she's swift enough, but she's never been good at remembering steps before." 

He paused to see whether there was anything Tauriel would add, but she kept silent, so he picked up their one-sided conversation again.

"Apparently Sigrid keeps busy with getting to know all the Elves in Mirkwood. The Woodland Realm, I mean. And she watches over our people there, the ones who’re staying with the Elves because they wouldn’t survive the winter here in Dale. That's more than I really like, but we couldn't keep them healthy here, and it's one less worry. Though perhaps I'd better worry that Sigrid's going to usurp me as their leader, not that I'd mind. She's ruled the household since she turned eight, running a city would be simple. Maybe I should let her, she'd be good at it and she's got a head for numbers, that's got to be useful." 

He continued to talk for the rest of the way, about his children and the small, everyday problems that had been solved in Dale over the past weeks. Whether Tauriel was interested at all in Percy's ideas for setting up a market of sorts with what they found in Dale, or in Bard's hopes where running water was concerned, was hard to tell. But as long as she didn't protest, Bard decided that he might as well use the time to go over these matters and look for obvious flaws in their plans.

Decisions would have to be made about Tauriel, he knew, but not today. Her silence wasn't so hard to read, and there was no need for urgent choices. They could afford the time to let her grieve, if that was what she needed; Bard wasn't going to begrudge her that.

When they rode across the bridge and through the city gate into Dale, Imrahil had obviously made his own decisions about her. The Elf watched their approach from the ramparts in plain sight of a number of his warriors. 

"Lord Bard," he called down, his voice carrying despite the falling snow. "It's good to see the safe return of you and your guest." 

Bard looked up at him and tried to make eye contact despite the distance. "She'll be treated with all due hospitality," he called back. 

Imrahil studied them, then gave a bow that was plainly mocking in its perfection. "Just so."

***

Bard could smell the dragon, sulphur and ash and sheer age. It was a stench he'd never forget in his life, and one he should never have smelled here in Dale.

"Did you think you could run from me?" Smaug hissed from the top of the great hall's ruins. "Did you think I wouldn't find you again? You and your miserable followers… Hide all you want, run as far as you can. I'll always find you."

Again Bard stood frozen in place and could only watch as Smaug climbed down from the roof, walls shattering under the weight of his claws. In the pale moonlight his hide was a dull, pockmarked brown that lacked the glow of fire it had mirrored in that terrifying night in Lake-town, and yet it did nothing to lessen the fear Bard felt at the sight.

"They follow a wretched creature like you," Smaug growled, lowering his giant head until Bard could have touched his maw if he'd been able to move his arm. "Just because you slew a dragon." A hiss, a widening of the nostrils that sent scorching hot air rushing against Bard's face and made him fight for breath. "Tell me, Dragonslayer, how will you save them this time? So weak, so helpless… I could make you watch as I devour them one by one." 

Bard fought against the paralysis in his limbs. He felt his muscles ache from the strain, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move even a finger. Still he pushed against whatever it was that kept him chained; what choice did he have? He had to fight, he had to warn the people of the danger. 

"What will you do then?" Smaug demanded, his lips drawn back in a snarl that bared fangs longer than Bard's arm. "Will you try and slay me once again, when the first time wasn't enough? I wonder how you'll do it. Do you think the Elves will fight for you? They didn't fight for the Dwarves, why should they care about such a rabble as you've brought here? Men die so swiftly in their eyes." 

"They are our friends!" The words were barely a whisper and yet felt like a victory. 

Smaug threw back his head on his long neck and roared with laughter. "Why should they be your friends, when you bring me with you? I will follow you, Dragonslayer, no matter where you go. Your life is tied to me until the end of time itself." 

Everything seemed to blur for a moment, and when he could focus again Bard saw the square filled with those who'd escaped the inferno of Lake-town and the chaos of battle. Hilda stood by the fountain and Percy just behind her; Kyrre and his wife were a little further back, along with Ingjerd, Mara and Alin. He knew the name to every face now and they all looked at him with such trust. Bain waved at him from the middle of the crowd. 

"Run!" Bard gasped but they didn't hear him and somehow didn't see the dragon looming just behind them. "Please, run! You must run!"

They didn't react.

"You think you can stop me, Dragonslayer?" Smaug jeered and rose up, wings spreading as he drew a deep breath that made his chest glow like embers in the hearth. "You think I will be merciful?" The last word was spat out like a bit of gristle. "You think I will spare them?"

Another deep inhalation, like the roar of a storm out on the lake, and then there was nothing anymore but fire and death.

***

Bard came awake gasping for air, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment he wasn't certain where he was, until he remembered Dale and the house they'd put him in, and the bed he was sleeping in alone these days.

He forced himself to calm down despite the stench of dragon in his nose. An illusion, it had to be. Just a dream, and not even the first time he'd had that kind of nightmare. Many among the people dreamed of that last night in Lake-town, even if few would admit to it if asked. But Hilda knew such things and she'd mentioned them to Bard because it was something he was supposed to be aware of. 

A dream. Not real. And yet he only felt calmer once he'd gotten out of bed and pushed open the shutters of the window so he could see the roof of the great hall and be sure that no dragon was perching there. The only figure he spotted was that of an Elf up on the highest belltower, armour shimmering in the moonlight.

He stood there for a little while, until the freezing night air became too much to bear. Not real, he reminded himself once more as he closed the shutters again so he wouldn't waste more heat. Not real. The dragon was dead, everyone was alive and well in their beds this night.

And yet he found himself in the narrow hallway and in front of Bain's bedroom door without quite knowing how he'd gotten there. Carefully he pushed it open, trying not to make a noise, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he saw Bain's sleeping shape in the dim light of the single lamp he'd left burning. 

By the time the first light of dawn began to brighten the sky he gave up on the sleep that had eluded him all night, shrugged on his clothes and headed down to their latest rebuilding project in Steep Street. The next few hours he spent sorting through piles of bricks, throwing out the broken ones and neatly stacking those that could be re-used, and did his best to not think of dragons.

***

The idea of using messenger birds was highly fascinating in theory, turned out to be a lot more difficult to put into practice.

Bard hadn't given it too much thought when he had seen Thranduil with the jay. Give the message to the bird, tell it where to go, watch it fly off. That should have been simple.

Thranduil had, however, failed to tell him how to actually attract a bird to give it a message in the first place.

"This is ridiculous," Bard muttered under his breath as he attempted to sneak up on a promising-looking crow he'd spotted on a pile of rubble in an abandoned smaller square. 

The crow took flight as soon as it saw him coming and landed again a few feet away. 

Bard heaved a sigh and slowly continued his approach. "Look, I'm not going to eat you," he told the bird. 

The bird was unimpressed and fluttered up to land on the edge of the nearest roof. It cawed down at him, and Bard didn't need to be able to understand it to catch the meaning. 

"I need you to take a message to the Elvenking for me."

The crow cocked its head and looked at him. Bard took that as a good sign. 

"Tell him that Tauriel has been found, and that she is under my protection for now," he said. "Ask him what he wants me to do with her. Tell him that Imrahil is not being helpful in this matter because he has no idea how to handle this."

The crow's caw at that sounded a bit like laughter.

"And if you see my daughters… Tell them they are loved, and that they're sorely missed."

With that he sent the crow off and was left to wonder whether the bird had truly understood what he'd asked of it. 

Bard kept a fairly close eye on Tauriel for the following days, as much as his other duties allowed. He wasn't certain what he'd expected her to do - keep away from the bustle in the streets during the daytime, perhaps, or even attempt to leave the town. But she simply, quietly fell into step with the people as if she had been there from the beginning. He knew she spent some of her time in one of the empty houses that overlooked the plain and gave her a view of the Lonely Mountain, that she was accepting food when it was offered to her and that she helped when climbing shaky rooftops was required. Once Bard had seen her speak to Imrahil, but that conversation had looked less than comfortable for both of them. She never talked to the other Elves and did not even attempt to make contact, and neither did they. 

The crow returned three days later and reported its success in delivering the message. It also carried brief greetings from Sigrid and Tilda and assurances that all was fine with them, as well as Thranduil's response.

Bard found that a little hard to believe. "Is that really all he said?" 

"He says that she is no concern of his," the crow dutifully repeated and managed to sound cranky, which was an impressive feat for a bird. "He thanks you for taking her in and says that he believes Dale needs new people, and that you're welcome to her."

"That's helpful," Bard muttered, then yelped when the crow pecked at his hand.

The crow cawed at him. "It's what he said." 

"Yes, yes. Thank you for carrying the message." Bard offered the crow a bit of lembas from his pocket that had been intended as yesterday's lunch and forgotten. The bird seized it carefully with its beak and took off, leaving Bard behind to wonder just what to do with Dale's first official Elf.

***

Over the next week, the winter Thranduil had warned Bard about firmly settled in. For three days the snow didn't stop falling, and it was all the people of Dale could do to keep at least a few pathways cleared to let them move back and forth between the buildings that were in use. The Dwarves couldn't make the short trek across the valley for over a week, and any and all rebuilding that had to be done in the open came to a complete standstill in the meantime.

An almost complete silence settled over Dale for the first time since the arrival of the refugees from Lake-town, and if it hadn't been for the smoke from the restored chimneys, the city would have looked as if it were still abandoned. Even the Elves stayed indoors if they were not on watch duty. 

The sudden change in pace made everybody pause, take stock and make decisions that went beyond a handful of days. Housing arrangements were re-done, temporary co-habitation either turning permanent or dissolving again. In most cases it happened quietly, as if hardly anyone had the energy to spare to make a scene. And if some of the new arrangements were less than conventional, that same lack of energy kept any disapproval to a minimum. 

Bard didn't notice much of a slow-down in his days; he merely shifted from rushing around in the streets to dealing with all manner of problems indoors, and the hall in his house turned into Dale's new semi-official gathering place. At least it was warmer than meeting outside in the main square. 

Slowly but surely they were gaining an overview of their situation. Bard had set Bain to count everybody currently living in Dale, figure out what their profession had been and how to best put them to use in the coming months. That census was coming along more quickly than he'd expected and within a handful of days Bain handed him a complete list of everybody lucky enough to have survived the destruction of Lake-town and the battle against the Orcs, as well as stubborn enough to have decided to stick around. 

It gave them a first proper look at an issue Bard had suspected for a while now. Too few men had made it through. Lake-town's women were capable, he had no doubt where that was concerned, and plenty of them had done the same work as their husbands and brothers. But it left them with the very simple problem that when it came down to physical labour, they'd be without their strongest hands for at least half a generation until the current children were grown. Right now the Elves made up for it, but they couldn't stay forever.

After more than a week, the first group of Dwarves made it through from Erebor again to resume their work on Dale's walls. Along with their tools they also brought an urgent request for Bard to join Dáin for a discussion.

It didn't bode well. 

There had been a few negotiations after Thranduil had left, but on the whole they'd agreed to shelve their remaining matters until spring. Neither Bard nor Dáin were ignorant of the fact that Thranduil was the dominant power in the region by far and that any agreements they might reach were useless if he didn't approve. Dáin grumbled more about it than Bard did, but in the end they'd both kept the Elvenking at least informed of what was being talked about.

Besides, the last time the Dwarves had requested an urgent talk, Bard had ended up with an Elf he still didn't know what to do about.

There was no way to avoid it, however, and so he sat in one of Erebor's smaller halls the next day, Dáin and Balin on the other side of the table. 

Greetings were exchanged, ale was offered and duly accepted, then Dáin cut to the heart of the matter. 

"We've had a messenger," he said. "Claimed to come from Lake-Town."

Bard sighed inwardly. It clearly would have been too much to ask that Alfrid had decided against pursuing his plans. "What did they want?"

"Their share of the gold Smaug stole and which Thorin promised to them." 

He shivered at hearing the dragon's name. Dead, he reminded himself, no matter what a few dreams might tell him. 

Dáin leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest as he regarded Bard. "It's part of your share, lad, so I don't know why this should be my problem."

"It's your gold." He wondered whether he might give back all that Dale didn't need to survive. The gold was cursed, he was certain of it; anyone who took what wasn't their right to take would suffer for it.

Balin shook his head. "According to the contract we signed with you as the representative of Dale, the share you received encompasses the claims of Dale for the destruction when Smaug arrived, any gold that might have been stolen from your city by the dragon in the following years until now, as well as reparation payments for Lake-town. As far as we can determine, this new demand concerns the latter. Dale claims to be the successor of Lake-town, so all claims revert to you since the majority of the people has settled with you and they've acclaimed you their lord."

Resting his hands on the cold stone surface of the table between them, Bard leaned forward and inwardly cursed Alfrid and his damned insistence on being a sodding pain in the arse. "What do you expect me to do?" he asked. 

"Tell us whether you want to share with them or not," Dáin said. "No need to make this complicated."

There was more gold than Dale could possibly need in the coming hundred generations or more. Bard had seen it and still had trouble believing that so much gold existed, let alone that he was the one expected to keep it safe in the name of his people. But that was the issue, wasn't it? He needed to keep it safe, and he had seen what the Master had done with the wealth he'd taken from the people. Alfrid had been part of that, and everybody had known that he'd turned into the driving force behind it all, with the hope of one day taking the Master's mantle for himself. If Bard gave him part of the gold now, it wouldn't end up doing anything but line a few very select pockets.

"What exactly did they tell you?" he asked.

Balin shrugged. "About the gold? That they hold a claim in the name of Lake-town and that you told them to come and speak with us. Which, like I said, is not correct. You are the representative for any and all claims Men might have upon us, and we've settled with you already. I imagine you'll have a visitor before long."

"I'm looking forward to it," Bard said dryly. "And I will attempt to settle this."

Dáin gave an amused huff. "Good luck with that, lad, I don't think they'll wait for you to come up with a fair division." 

Eyes narrowed, Bard waited. Dáin was shrewd enough not to make such comments without reason, and Bard had learned to wait him out, which could take hours depending on how tempted any participating Elvenkings were to trade insults.

"They've made us an offer, too," Dáin continued, his gaze firmly on Bard. "Not for the gold, but for supplies. Seems like they think they can deliver food once the snow's gone, and run transports from Erebor to the Iron Hills. They also want to trade for whatever we might mine or forge."

Bard shook his head. "They can't have horses and carts for it. Or boats, practically all the barges were destroyed, it's going to take them at least a year until they've got enough of them set up."

Dale needed the trade links with the Dwarves. It was the only reason why the city had been established in the first place, as Erebor's contact point with the wider world. The Dwarves had never been particularly interested in handling the commercial side of their achievements in Erebor, and hadn't cared at all about matters like farming or trading for other goods. Dale had supplied the Lonely Mountain for centuries, had kept the Dwarves fed and outfitted them with whatever they might need. And in return Erebor's ore and metalwork had been sold through Dale. 

If whatever settlement Alfrid was establishing down at the lake poached that trade from them, Dale had no reason to exist. They'd manage to carry on, what with piles of gold up to the ceilings in the Lonely Mountain's vast vaults. But there would be no point in it. Why have a city that served no purpose? 

Balin cleared his throat, drawing Bard's attention. "We haven't made any agreements with them. But if their offer is competitive…"

"A low price doesn't make them reliable," Bard countered. "I know the river trade, I know what can and should be asked." 

"In that case," Dáin said, "I'm sure you can make us a better offer."

***

As soon as Bard was back in Dale, he recruited the most capable assistant he could think of.

"What exactly am I supposed to do about your talks with the Dwarves?" Percy wanted to know when Bard dragged him away from his fireside chat and into his study. 

"Juggle a few apples to distract them while I nick Bofur's hat, of course." Bard offered him one of the chairs, then sat down himself. 

Percy cocked his head. "Really?"

Bard gave him a look.

"It wouldn't be the strangest thing you've done lately, you've got to admit that." Percy dropped onto the chair. "So what's it you need? My wisdom? My moral support? My virility?"

"It would be a lost cause if I had to rely on any of that," Bard muttered and poured himself a cup of wine, then another one for Percy. He was beginning to see why Thranduil was fond of the stuff. 

Percy grinned. "My good looks, then," he said and reached for the cup, frowning when he saw the contents. "You think you can talk to the Elves about leaving us ale rather than wine?"

"I'm not sure they know what ale actually is." Bard had seen Thranduil drink it when the Dwarves had offered, but never more than the sip required to honour the offered hospitality. 

"Explains much about them." Percy leaned back and watched Bard for a few moments. "So what is it? I'm guessing you don't need me just to drink with you. Not that I'd mind."

"I need your knowledge. You've been Lake-town's portmaster, I need you to tell me all you remember about fees and fares."

Percy's eyebrows rose. "That's going to take a while."

"Good. The more you remember, the better." 

"Narrow it down a bit, or we'll be here all night." Percy drank from his wine and pulled a face at the taste, then had another sip before he put the cup down again. "It's a bit soon to think about tariffs, isn't it?"

"I'm not going to tax anyone when we still don’t have everybody under roofs that don’t leak. But we'll need to figure out a contract with the Dwarves about transports, and the sooner we get that done, the better."

"You should know that, you've been ferrying stuff all your life."

"Only for the Elves in the last few years, and part of that payment was in empty barrels." Which had been sufficient to keep Bard and his family fed and warm most of the time, and had let him stay within a day's journey of home while his children had been too small to be left alone for longer times. "I need to know what was usually paid for what freight." 

Percy considered that. "You're aware that it doesn't quite compare, right? I know the fares for transport on the river, but we'll need to figure out what the difference is between that and getting stuff up to here. We'll need carts, for one thing, and there'll have to be a dock somewhere to load and unload cargo. Makes things complicated."

"Could we go upriver?" 

"If you can get our Dwarf friends to repair the canals, probably. Old Dale had a waterway network that ran down to the lake." Percy had another mouthful of wine, looking thoughtful as he swallowed. "Don't think you want to suggest that to them right now, though, if you want them to finish Dale first. I saw the canal locks on our way up and they didn't look like there was much left. That's going to take a while to fix."

"But it could be done?"

"Those Dwarves hollowed out an entire mountain, I don't think a canal is too tricky for them. The little buggers would probably do it just for the heck of it if you tell them you don't think it can be done."

"Let's keep that in mind. Now all I need to know is what we need to charge for transports to the Dwarves."

Percy shook his head, chuckling. "You realise that's mostly going to be guesswork?"

"Just give me some kind of idea, I'm not asking for more. I need a basis so I can keep talking to Dáin."

Percy watched him. "Why now? We won't have the manpower to spare for quite a while yet."

Bard hesitated. Percy had never been among the Master's followers; he'd kept his head down and done his best to assist Lake-town's smugglers by looking the other way and dropping hints whenever possible. And ever since their arrival in Dale, he'd firmly supported Bard's decisions and carried out whatever needed to be done. He could be trusted, but it still didn't come easily to be open. If there was one lesson Bard had learned over the past years, it had been to keep his plans to himself if he didn't want more trouble than strictly necessary.

Avoiding trouble was, admittedly, no longer an option these days. More importantly than that, keeping secrets had been the Master's way, and if there was one rule Bard had set himself for this whole sodding lordship business, it was that he would never be like that.

"Alfrid's decided to go and offer the Dwarves contracts," he said. 

"And we're not going to let him?"

Bard sighed. "It's going to hurt those who've decided to stay at the lake. But if he does it, we might as well give up Dale. The city can't run on the dragon's hoard forever."

Percy shrugged. "Let them figure it out," he said, reaching for a scrap of paper and a quill. "And until then, let's figure out a few facts."

***

The weeks came and went while they slowly established routines and order in Dale. Midwinter Day saw a small feast, their best effort to mark the new year with the limited supplies they had. The Elves joined the party, if not the collective mild hangover the next morning, though Bard assumed they'd seen worse over the years. He'd certainly ferried enough wine up the Forest River over the years to get the entire population of Mirkwood properly drunk a few times over.

It helped to bring the Elves closer to the people of Dale. There had been a noticeable distance despite them being allies, in part because there had never been that much contact between them all. Lake-town hadn't been very welcoming to visitors for a long time, and not many of its people had ventured into Mirkwood. As the winter went on, some of the people even opened their homes to Elves they had befriended, and Bard quietly wondered whether they'd be seeing any lasting effects of this down the road.

Bard kept to his habit of being out and about the city as much as he could whenever the weather allowed. He'd done the same in Lake-town, though partly because being cooped up in a small house with nothing to do had simply never appealed to him in any way. Being surrounded by others let him gauge the mood and see if anything was amiss; in Lake-town at times it had been depressing, though he'd never been able to look away. It had gotten him into plenty of trouble whenever he hadn't managed to keep his mouth shut and his head down.

It still got him into trouble these days, though in other ways. 

He felt, more than saw, Imrahil pounce on him from the top of the wall he'd just passed. 

"Oh come on!" he gasped as he desperately twisted to throw himself backwards, out of the way. "Really?"

Imrahil landed in a light crouch before him, casually spinning a long dagger in his left hand. "Careless," he drawled. "Once again."

Bard glanced left and right, but there was no immediate escape route open. On his left was a wall, and on his right one of the smaller fountains that he wasn't even going to attempt to cross, because being soaking wet wasn't a humiliation he needed to add. Turning around wasn't an option unless he wanted to end up on his front rather than his back this time. 

Smirking, Imrahil gave him the time to determine the hopelessness of his position, then took a step forward. "You should pay more attention." Then he lounged at Bard.

Only to be knocked aside just before reaching him. 

Bard, already braced for impact, blinked when he didn't land on his arse for once.

"He isn't the only one," Tauriel hissed, her eyes on Imrahil as she moved between him and Bard, blocking his angle of attack. "My Lord."

It was the first time Bard had seen Imrahil genuinely startled, though he almost immediately slipped back into faintly disdained amusement. Tauriel, on the other hand, held herself straight with tension, shifting her stance as soon as Imrahil as much as twitched. 

For long moments they remained where they were, tense like two cats whose paths had unexpectedly crossed. Then Imrahil took a half step forward, and before Bard could decide whether that was a smart or foolish move, Tauriel had her daggers drawn and charged at him. 

Seeing Elves fight was impressive for their sheer speed and agility. Bard hadn't paid much attention to them during the battle because he'd been occupied with other concerns, like not getting slaughtered by Orcs, but there had been a few opportunities lately to see them on the practice ground. Those instances, however, had mostly been against Men to assist in creating something like a militia for Dale, and it had been about training so the Elves had held back.

That Imrahil was holding back at first was obvious; he let Tauriel's attack come and blocked it easily, knocking her dagger aside with his own as he pivoted and she lunged past him, scrambling to turn around against her momentum. It repeated a few times until Imrahil suddenly moved from mere side-stepping into an attack so swift that it caught Tauriel off-guard and sent her stumbling. 

She recovered immediately, stepping far enough back to gain herself a moment to reassess the situation, then went for Imrahil again in a blur of motion too fast for Bard to see the details. He could tell that neither of them were hesitating anymore now but that they were fighting at the best of their abilities, honed by centuries of practice. 

Bard also became aware that Imrahil was still trying to get past Tauriel and through to him, and that he was slowly but surely pushing her back, one step at a time. 

"Damn it, Princess," he muttered, casting about for something, anything to do. He could run to save himself - and probably should do so, in Imrahil's opinion - but that was never going to happen. 

He wasn't going to wade into the whirlwind that was the two fighting Elves with a knife, that had to be a recipe for someone getting accidentally injured. Throwing stones seemed petty, and simply ordering them to stop was hardly going to work when Imrahil barely listened to him at the best of times. 

Bard did the most logical thing. He grabbed one of the buckets that sat waiting by the fountain, plunged it into the freezing cold basin, then swung it to throw the water at the Elves in a wide arch.

The effect was immediate. Tauriel and Imrahil startled apart, both of them occupied with suddenly getting soaked, and it was enough for Bard to reach in and grab Tauriel's arm to haul her backwards and put himself between them.

"Enough!" he bellowed, reaching for the tone that had always been enough to put an end to squabbles between the children. "Believe it or not, but I've actually got more important matters to deal with!"

Imrahil shook himself and drew himself up straight. "This is an important matter!"

"You didn't get to kill me this time, I'd say I'm doing well." Folding his arms, Bard met his eyes and refused to back down despite the fact that irate Elves were a rather frightening sight to behold. 

"Only because you had help."

"Which you've been nagging me about for weeks now." Bard glanced at Tauriel, who was quietly wiping her sleeve across her wet face. "Don't complain, Princess, just admit that you lost."

Imrahil stared at him, then muttered something in Elvish that was bound to be highly uncomplimentary and stalked off. 

"I'm not sure this was wise," Tauriel offered when Imrahil was out of sight and presumably out of even Elven earshot. 

Bard shrugged. "I've given up on being wise around Elves, it never quite works the way I'd like it to. He's been trying so hard to show me how easy it would be to kill me, it's nice to see him thwarted so thoroughly for once. Thank you for that."

Tauriel sheathed her daggers with a swift twirl of her wrists, her eyes on the dark splashes of water on the ground. "I didn't realise what he was doing. I wouldn't have interfered if I'd known he wasn't truly attempting to do you harm." 

"You thought he really was out for blood?" The idea was more than a little disconcerting. Bard had been aware from the start that Imrahil was more than just displeased at being ordered to stay in Dale, and he knew that the Elf wasn't particularly fond of Dale's ragtag crowd. But it had never occurred to him that Imrahil might actually attempt to do him harm beyond proving a point.

"For a moment I did," Tauriel said, but she didn't sound convinced. 

Bard considered it, then shook his head. "No. He's an arrogant bastard with a stick up his arse, but I don't think he would." 

"You have known him for a handful of weeks, and you trust him that much?"

It didn't take much to hear the real question behind her words. Tauriel had been treated well in Dale, but she'd been an outsider since her first day, partly because she'd kept herself at a distance, partly because nobody had been entirely sure where she fit in. The Elves ignored her most of the time, though Bard had seen them watch her when she'd not been looking. To the people of Dale she just was one Elf among many and didn't warrant particular attention when she kept quiet while some of the others made efforts to befriend the Men they found themselves in such close quarters with.

It occurred to Bard that she might be lonely.

"He hasn't given me any reason not to trust him," he told her. "Despite his occasional attempts to stab me, but I seem to have that effect on a lot of people." 

A hint of a smile crossed her face. "I wonder why."

Bard grinned at her. "A complete mystery," he said. "He claims it's to teach me to be more cautious, but I think he's simply enjoying himself most of the time. Not that he'd ever admit to that."

Tauriel considered that. "He is right."

Bard sighed. "Don't you start as well. I'm not going to make someone follow me around just in case that demented Elf decides to try and pounce me like a mouse. Surely everyone's got to have something better to do around here."

She hesitated, then raised her chin to meet his eyes. "Not everyone," she said quietly.

Bard held her gaze and waited. 

"I don't," she continued. 

There were plenty of tasks to be dealt with in Dale, but Bard had to admit that Tauriel might have a point. She didn't fit in with the Elves anymore, and didn't fit yet with the Men. And while he knew that she kept busy, there were no duties she truly called her own from day to day. 

"Would you like to?" he asked.

She looked at him, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. 

"It might stop Imrahil from actually stabbing me one of these days. And with so many Elves here, I could use someone to explain the occasional… difference, you might say."

Her eyebrows rose. "Difference?"

"There were twenty naked Elves in the big fountain yesterday evening," Bard said, and still felt baffled at the thought. "Cheerful, naked Elves. There was singing. I don't know about Elves, but in my experience people don't look that happy in the middle of winter when they're chin deep in icy water."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "They must have set up a steam room somewhere. It's customary in winter, a way to pass the time and keep clean."

"Of course, the Elvish fascination with baths, how could I forget," Bard said with a roll of his eyes. He appreciated being clean, he wasn't going to lie about that, and the Elves had left a generous supply of soap much finer than anything that had ever been available in Lake-town. But there was being clean, and then there was the Elvish obsession with bathing twice a day that Thranduil exhibited. Bard had been a little bemused at that despite the opportunity it had afforded him to watch that graceful body all wet and relaxed.

Tauriel tilted her head to the side. "Not everybody likes being dirty."

"It's not so much a matter of liking dirt as disliking cold water in winter," Bard said. "But it explains why the Elves are so concerned about fixing the baths. I'm not going to ask whether it's more because they miss it, or because we all smell bad."

"You might not like the answer," Tauriel said, and there definitely was a smile on her face now. 

"Elves," Bard muttered. "But truly, if you are in need of something to do, I could probably use someone who keeps Imrahil from killing me and who can explain the strange ways of Elves."

She nodded. "Important tasks."

"Until someone needs a roof fixed somewhere."

"You're the Lord of Dale, you should have a guard."

Bard shrugged. "Doesn't help much when it rains into your porridge while you sit in the kitchen." Still, it would give her something to do and it would hopefully shut up Imrahil, at least for a little while until he found something else to be irritated about.

Tauriel shot him a disapproving look. "Appearances matter," she said. "I have to agree with Lord Imrahil on that, even if his methods may be a little strange at times." 

"That's one way to put it. So, interested?"

She was honest enough to take a moment and consider it, then nodded once again. "I will be honoured."

Bard gave her a lopsided smile. "Don't worry, that won't last long."

***

Bard had climbed the heights of Ravenhill a few times when the Dwarves had permitted it. The hill was their territory, and ever since Thorin and his nephews had died there it had taken on something of a mythical air for them. They'd never suffer a dragon there and yet here Smaug was, the fire in his breath melting the ice that covered the River Running's source. His claws left deep gouges in the rock and the ground shook when he stalked forward, wings spread and that huge head held high on the curving neck.

"Tell me, Dragonslayer," Smaug snarled at him, the words dripping with mockery, "how will you slay me twice?"

"I've done it once, I can find a way." This time Bard didn't waste his strength on struggling against what held him still. Fear still made his heartbeat surge, but it was edged with anger. He'd slain that dragon, that was supposed to be enough when it had come at such a cost. "You aren't here. You are at the bottom of the lake and nothing more than a rotting carcass. The Mountain's lost to you."

"The Dwarves think the Mountain is theirs," Smaug growled, long tail lashing out like a whip. Behind him, the watchtower crumbled with a deafening rumble of falling stones. "But there's only one King under the Mountain, and mine is the crown. The halls know me. The rock knows me." He swung his head around, showing his teeth in a grin that sent shivers down Bard's spine. "The gold knows me. They may call it dragon sickness when it twists their simple minds until they cannot judge friend from foe. Perhaps I'll wait until they tear each other apart in their greed."

"They won't!" But he'd seen what the gold had done with Thorin. Dáin might be more resilient than his cousin, but could they ever be sure? 

Smaug's head came level with Bard's so one enormous golden eye could watch him, unblinking and uncaring. "Will you take that risk? A whispered thought in the false king's mind would be all that's needed to turn them against each other, and then against you." He chuckled, a terrifying grumble deep in his throat. "I'll wait. Anger and hate makes them taste all the sweeter." Another snarling laugh, then Smaug raised his wings and Bard saw Tauriel kneeling behind him on the rocky ground, head bent and buried in her hands. "I'll have her until then, homeless and friendless. It might be a mercy."

"Never," Bard growled, and for a moment he felt his hands curl into fists. "She's got a home. She's got friends." 

"Are you so certain about that?" Smaug asked, tail lashing out. "Where are they? Who'll defend her if she won't do it for herself? You, Dragonslayer? When you bring me with you?" The leathery wings spread again, blocking out all light. "Fool. You will never be rid of me, in sleep or when you’re awake."

Bard couldn’t have said what it was that woke him at that point. But in the darkness of his room, it took him almost until morning to be certain that no dragon was lurking in the shadows.

***

Snow continued to fall throughout winter, even as the days grew longer again. The road between Dale and Erebor turned into a narrow path framed by snow walls higher than a man's head, and parts of the town were inaccessible for weeks at a time. Despite the limitations and complications it also felt peaceful and enforced a focus on their immediate surroundings. When there was nowhere to go, people had to deal with what was right in front of them.

They ended up with plenty of arguments and even physical fights throughout the winter, but fortunately for all of them, none were truly catastrophic. A few more lines were quietly drawn, a few more relations rearranged, but they all came out of the winter a stronger community than they had been before. 

Bain kept growing over the winter, a small but constant confusion for Bard, who imagined he could watch his son become taller by the week. In the autumn, Bain had come up to Bard's chin if he stood straight; now he was barely a hand's width shorter. He had also gotten caught up in a small fight of dominance between Elves and Dwarves quite by accident once word got out that Imrahil was teaching him swordplay. Apparently it was inconceivable that the heir to Dale should be taught only by the pointy-ears, or so the Dwarves claimed. Therefore Bain now divided his time between Dale, where he practiced with Imrahil, and the halls of Erebor to learn more Dwarvish ways of fighting. It was an odd quirk of politics that Bard would never have expected to intrude in their lives.

Another bit of diplomacy had a more sudden impact on him when the first Elves from Mirkwood managed to get through to Dale again without having to walk the entire distance. Supply carts were not possible yet with the roads as muddy as they were, but Feren and his handful of riders carried plenty of news from those who'd spent the winter with the Elves. 

"I'm to tell you that your daughters are well," Feren told Bard once the official greetings had been dealt with. "King Thranduil has grown quite fond of them."

"He'll still have to give them back," Bard said, gratefully accepting a letter from Sigrid and itching to open it here and now in the square. They'd sent a few birds back and forth lately, but there was a limit to how much information their feathered brains could retain. And while it was marvellous to have birds as messengers, there was something to be said about the solidity of paper. Bard kept his daughters’ letters safe, little reminders that they were well and protected. With messages carried as nothing but words repeated by a bird he couldn’t do the same. "Has he said anything about when it's going to be possible for them to travel?"

Feren nodded. "That is my second message to deliver to you. He requests your presence in his halls and suggests that at this opportunity you can bring back at least some of your people."

Bard frowned. "Why not all?"

"That is for the king to say, but I believe not all of them may want to leave immediately." Feren paused. "King Thranduil wishes you to appear before his council."

"His council? Why?" 

A faint look of impatience settled on Feren's face. "That is for the king to tell you." 

Bard had dealt with Thranduil's war council in the autumn, but those had been his generals. The worst among that bunch had been Imrahil, and even he was someone Bard felt he could handle by now. But he suspected from what rumours he'd heard that the regular council that assisted Thranduil in ruling his kingdom would be a bit more complicated. Once more he wondered what he'd done to deserve having to handle these kinds of matters. Not run quickly enough for the hills when the people had decided to settle him with this sodding lordship, probably.

They left for Mirkwood two days later, as soon as Bard was reasonably certain that he could leave the people of Dale to their own devices for a few days. They'd be fine, he knew that, but he still felt as if he were abandoning his duties and it didn't sit well with him. 

"You're doing this on behalf of Dale," Percy told him just before he was supposed to leave. "It's not like you're in for nothing but fun and pleasure while we're breaking our backs here."

Bard had been harbouring certain hopes about the reunion with his children and the Elvenking, so he kept his mouth shut. 

"And to be honest," Percy went on, either truly or deliberately ignorant about certain matters, "I'd much rather keep an eye on Dale for a week or two than go and face a council full of Elves. Our Elves are all fine and good, but they're normal ones, not posh ones. You're good with the Elvenking, you'll handle the other ones. And Bain and I'll just keep things running here."

So Bard rode off to Mirkwood that day, surrounded by Feren's company as a guard. It was a slow journey; at times they had to walk the horses when the ground turned too treacherous, and often enough the animals sank hock deep into the mud where the road had turned into a swamp with the melting snow. It became easier once they reached the edge of the forest, where the path had been maintained by the Elves and was more suited to swifter riding. They passed the small loading dock where Bard had anchored so often, delivering goods to the Elves or waiting to collect empty barrels from the river. A past life now, though he still spotted a few lengths of rope and a half-shattered crate he'd left behind that last time he'd been here before the winter, when he'd hoped to earn some more coin by smuggling passengers. 

If only he'd known what would come of that. 

The sun hung low in the sky when they reached the gates to the Elvenking's halls, still as grand as Bard remembered them from his only journey here so far. That had been more than twenty years ago, when he'd been brought here to negotiate the continuation of his father's ferrying contract with Galion. He hadn't warranted the Elvenking's personal attention then, so this was the first time he saw more of his halls than just the small chamber right off the entrance where he'd stood all those years ago, feeling scruffy and unimportant.

Once again it struck him how bright and airy the halls were. He'd seen much of the Dwarves' halls in Erebor over the last months; those were impressive and almost awe-inspiring with their massive columns and monumental arches, the light from lamps reflected off the dark, polished rock, the ceilings so high that they were shrouded in darkness. The Elves, too, had carved their halls underground, but they were as different from those of the Dwarves as the two peoples were. 

Bard followed Feren along the length of the vast cavern and tried not to be too obvious about looking around. Beams of daylight made the space almost as bright as the outside, and the curving pillars were like the roots and branches of a forest. The floor matched that impression, rising and falling, twisting and turning like a pathway through the trees, and the lingering scent of clean water, leaves and earth completed the sensation. He even caught the murmur of brooks somewhere below the arched walkways, and small waterfalls cascaded down the walls. 

Elves. Small wonder they weren't particularly concerned about leaky roofs when waterfalls in the bedchamber were what they were used to.

They climbed low, winding stairs up to a wider platform surrounded by slender columns of stone shaped to look like wood. Another set of stairs wound its way even higher, up to the throne of carved wood and antlers from where Thranduil watched them approach, sprawled on his seat with his legs crossed at the knee, the very image of regal, haughty amusement in his robes of blue and gold. 

"My Lord," Feren said as he stepped before the throne and bowed. "Lord Bard of Dale, as you requested."

"Da!"

Bard's head snapped to the left where a few Elves stood on a raised dais, and with them two shorter figures in colourful Elvish clothes. 

"Tilda! Sigrid!"

They threw themselves at him before he could do more than take a step forward and reach out, holding on to him. He threw his arms around them and hugged them as tightly as he could, pressing kisses to the crowns of their heads while he whispered their names. 

"We've missed you," Sigrid murmured, her face buried against the crook of his neck. Bard drew her even closer, unwilling to let them both go again. His girls in his arms after long months; he couldn't care less about the Elves around them. They were immortal, they could wait while he made sure his daughters were well. 

"Da," Tilda sighed happily, her fingers tugging at the collar of his coat and he bent to lift her up even though she was getting too big for it, her weight so reassuring to him. 

"They must have been feeding you well," he told her with a smile before pressing their cheeks together. 

She wriggled a little until she settled against his hip. "The Elves are nice," she said. "And kind."

"They've been good to us," Sigrid confirmed her little sister's words. "But I'm so glad you're here, Da." 

Bard just held them, so happy to have them back. He knew it had been for the best to send them here for the winter, but it had been so hard not to see them, not to know if they were healthy and well. He became aware of someone stepping close to them but didn't take his attention off his daughters, not yet. After being away from them for so long, anything else could wait, diplomatic mannerisms be damned. 

"Tilda," he heard Thranduil say her name, followed by some quiet words in Sindarin. 

Tilda straightened and twisted away from Bard, happily chatting back in the same language. It gave him pause, though what had he expected? Of course she was bound to pick up more than a few words over the winter. 

"We'll show him the way," Sigrid said, also straightening to glance at the Elvenking. "And we'll bring him for dinner." 

"Do so," Thranduil told her. 

Bard carefully set Tilda down and met his eyes. "Thank you," he said and didn't have to work on letting his voice show just how grateful he was.

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at him. "I bid you welcome to my realm, Lord of Dale. We shall speak later."

Bard simply raised his eyebrows right back at him, Sigrid and Tilda leaning against his sides. "We shall."

***

The hours until evening passed in a blink. His daughters showed him around, excitedly telling him about the months they'd spent here and all the small and large adventures they'd had. Seeing them happy eased the guilt in Bard's heart he'd felt all winter about sending them away. They clearly had missed being with their family as much as he and Bain had, but they hadn't suffered for it. And they looked to be in much better shape than they would have been after a winter on the lake, when those grim, cold months had always left them all pale and lean until spring. Thanks to the Elves' help, even the winter in Dale had been easier in comparison despite the chaos and constant need for improvisation, and sending their more vulnerable people off to Mirkwood had clearly been the best they could have done.

They had changed, both of them. There were the obvious differences: just like Bain they had both grown, and Tilda now wore her hair in Elvish braids to match her new clothes. They moved with a different balance to their steps, perhaps due to the training with sword and daggers they had been given during the winter. Apparently Imrahil wasn't the only one who considered it necessary to make sure even children could defend themselves. Clearly the Elves, too, were no strangers to hard lives.

There also were smaller, less visible changes. Sigrid had always been quiet, but now she carried herself with more consideration and more than once Bard could tell she was deliberately thinking about her answers' effect before speaking. Tilda, on the other hand, had only grown bolder after what quite possibly had been the most carefree months in her young life.

It was also hard to miss that the Elves had been ready and willing to spoil the two of them. Bard was just thankful that his daughters were level-headed enough not to take such gifts for granted, since there was no way he'd be able to keep up. Children - and girls at that - were rare enough among the Elves that apparently half of Thranduil’s court had seized the opportunity to present them with all sorts of little tokens and tales. At least most of them knew to remain moderate, which clearly was a concept their king didn’t quite comprehend.

"I thought that when I asked you not to let Tilda sleep in the stables, it was implied that you weren't to give her a horse," he told Thranduil when they met for the evening meal. 

"It's a foal, that hardly counts as a horse," Thranduil replied. "And she has only slept in the stable once." 

"When the foal was born," Tilda agreed happily. "But I didn't sleep that night, so it doesn't count."

Bard attempted to imagine his youngest after a sleepless night, all excited over her own horse. He didn't feel sorry at all for what she'd probably put the Elves through the next day.

"Doesn't it have a name yet?" he asked. 

Tilda shook her head. "I have to wait a few months so I know what's the best name for him, it's how the Elves do it."

Bard shot Thranduil a look that was blithely ignored. A horse, what were they supposed to do with that? She would hardly spend enough time riding to need her own. Well, at least there was plenty of space in Dale if she decided to bring it along at some point which, knowing Tilda, was practically a certainty. 

"Do you know yet when we'll leave for Dale?" Sigrid wanted to know. She'd been quiet for most of the meal, letting her sister tell most of their shared tales. 

Before Bard could hazard a guess, Thranduil turned towards her. "It will have to wait for a week or so. There is another storm coming that won't carry much snow, but will make the ride uncomfortable for those susceptible to the weather."

"So there will be time for another visit with the weavers?" she asked. "Almiel said they'll begin with the new tapestries and I wanted to watch."

"We shall have to call you Vairë one of these days," Thranduil said, then glanced at Tilda and added, "the Vala who remembers and weaves all the tales in Arda."

Bard sat back as his daughters asked for details and Thranduil answered them with an ease that spoke of many such shared hours. It was reassuring that they'd been so well cared for and that Thranduil had taken the time to do so personally. Sigrid and Tilda were comfortable enough around him to ask their questions and even complain when something was not sufficiently clear, and he showed them plenty of patience in his answers. Had he been like this with his own children when they had been small? Bard had seen his interactions with Imrahil and found it difficult to imagine, though mostly because casting Imrahil as anything less than a sodding annoyance in his mind was hard.

He was just mopping up crumbs of roast boar from his plate when the discussion shifted into Sindarin for a bit and he could no longer even pretend to follow it. At times his daughters clearly sought for words, Sigrid more so than Tilda, but they were proficient enough to carry a conversation about, from what words he understood, herd of deer they'd been shown a few days ago in the forest. 

Thranduil briefly glanced at him as if to gauge his mood, then refilled both their cups with the light wine they'd been served. Bard met his eyes and cast him a swift smile, then gestured for them to carry on while he focused on the last bites of his meal. It deserved the attention; even before their current lembas-based diet it had been a long time since they'd been able to afford anything this rich, and he'd didn’t even know what some of these spices were. 

The talk moved back to more understandable territory and eventually wound down when Tilda's energy began to flag. She'd always been an early riser, something that apparently hadn't changed; Sigrid and Bard shared knowing looks before she prodded her little sister upright and herded her to Bard's side of the table for a last hug before they both left for the night. 

"You taught them Elvish?" Bard asked when the girls were gone, leaning back in his chair and toying with the last bit of bread on his plate. 

"Most of my people don't speak anything but Sindarin. It would soon have become boring for your daughters here, and at their age they learn quickly." Thranduil drank from his wine, then set the cup down again. "They have been very interested in our ways." 

"Tilda's always liked Elves. She stowed away on my barge a few times when she knew I had business upriver, just in case she'd be lucky and see one of your patrols. We saw Legolas once on the riverbank, not that we knew who he was at the time."

Thranduil chuckled. "I do hope that was as she expected."

"Not really, he was trying to shoot arrows while hanging upside down from a branch. Then he fell off." Grinning, Bard shook his head at the memory. "I think it's given her a somewhat odd idea of what Elves are like. Hopefully she's changed her assumptions a little by now."

"I don't think she believes we Elves fall out of trees anymore." Leaning on the armrest of his chair, Thranduil shifted into a sprawl, and Bard took a lazy moment to appreciate the sight. "On the other hand, it has been difficult to dissuade her from the idea that we bathe in wine for some reason."

Bard laughed. "That might be my fault, it's how I explained your need for that many barrels of the stuff. She sneaked a taste once when one of the barrels was damaged, and she decided it's not drinkable."

"Young palates," Thranduil said with a shake of his head and a fond smile on his face. "Will you take them back to Dale with you?"

He took a moment to consider his answer. "Should I not?"

Thranduil shrugged. "It is for you to know."

Bard leaned forward. "If there is any reason why I shouldn't, I want to know," he said firmly. "I know you think clear answers and advice are a terrible thing to give, but these are my daughters. I'm not going to guess."

Thranduil raised his hand in a placating gesture. "That was not my intention to imply," he said. "There is no more danger to them now than before. I meant merely that I wouldn't be averse to hosting them for longer." 

"I think I'd like them back," Bard told him. He'd leave them here if it was a matter of their safety, but otherwise he wasn't going to abandon them for even a moment longer. Not when the winter had already been unbearably long, and when Dale now was safe enough for them again. "You can have Imrahil in exchange."

Cocking his head, Thranduil cast him a quizzical look. "Has he not fulfilled his duties? That would be very unlike him."

"Oh, he's been good about his duties, that's not the problem," Bard said, absently rubbing a hand across his thigh where he still carried a bruise from Imrahil's latest practice attempt, which fortunately had been cut short by Tauriel once again. "I just wish he weren't so determined to kill me."

Thranduil's expression darkened. "He tries to kill you?" he asked, his voice hard at a sudden. 

Perhaps that hadn't been the best way to put it. "Just for pretense. He's convinced someone's going to try for real one of these days and so he…" Bard waved his hand a little helplessly, "wants to show me that I need to be careful. I think." He paused. "He's also getting a lot of fun out of knocking me down on my arse. So he's not really trying to assassinate me. And he's not always successful anyway."

"I may need to have words with my son," Thranduil said, his frown deepening. 

Bard reached for his wine. "Because he tries to stab me, or because he doesn't always manage?" he asked, taking a sip. Either this was a better vintage than the ones Thranduil had brought to Dale or the stuff was beginning to grow on him. It still wasn't a proper replacement for ale, but he wasn't going to complain. 

"Both, naturally. If he has to make such foolish attempts, he should at least succeed." 

"How reassuring," Bard muttered, though he could sense the lightening mood and was happy to go along with the shift.

"I do expect him to leave you unharmed. It would be such a shame if something happened to you."

Bard raised his eyebrows. "Would it, now?"

"Of course." Thranduil very deliberately looked him over, smirked, then rose from his chair in one fluid motion, settling his gold-threaded robe around himself with a practiced shrug. "Come. I wish to have a look at your knee."

Bard looked up at him, then got up as well, because why the heck shouldn't he. "Is that some kind of odd Elvish flirting? I wasn't aware my knees are that attractive."

Thranduil glanced at his knee, then slowly let his gaze wander upwards again. "We shall see." 

He followed Thranduil back to what he figured were the private quarters of the king and his guests, as much as it could be called privacy when half the rooms were open to the wide halls. Perhaps it was a matter of habit; the Elves in Dale certainly didn't seem bothered about sharing space even though there was plenty of room to be had. 

"This is all just a ploy to get me naked, isn't it?" he said when they stepped into a smaller hall that was presumably a bath and explained why Imrahil's Elves hadn't thought twice about using the fountain basins for a quick dip. Bard had considered lugging a bathtub onto a battlefield preposterous when he'd encountered one in Thranduil's tent. Now he had to revise that opinion - clearly the Elvenking had suffered much hardship and deprivation if this was what he was used to. The basin was easily wide enough to swim a few strokes, even if it seemed almost sacrilegious to do something so mundane when surrounded by that much elegance. Intricately carved columns rose up like trees to the ceiling, crafted with more detail than Bard could really see in the soft, warm light from the lamps along the walls that were covered in murals finer than anything he’d seen in his life so far. In Bard’s experience, a bath meant an old barrel with lukewarm water - here he felt almost worried that he might get something dirty.

Thranduil stopped at the side of the pool, plainly amused at Bard’s astonishment over something that had to be normal for him. "It is a ploy to discover what makes you limp," he said, then came back to Bard's side in a few flowing steps, his hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robes. "It needn't be more."

Bard watched him approach. "Can it be?" he asked, eyebrows quirked at the almost concerned tone of voice.

"Perhaps."

Bard rolled his eyes. "Elves," he growled, letting his amusement colour his voice, "why did I expect anything else?" Then, before Thranduil could say anything in response, he reached out to cup his face and draw him into a kiss, and with that he could feel them shift back into alignment. 

"Do not think that this will dissuade me," Thranduil told him, hands settling lightly against the small of Bard's back, trailing slow circles he could feel through his tunic. "I'll see that knee."

"My knee is fine." It was the bruised thigh that was the issue, but he didn't intend to point that out just now. Instead he claimed another kiss that was eagerly returned, humming contentedly when they moved closer, and he could feel the warmth of Thranduil's skin even through their layers of clothing. 

Thranduil leaned back far enough for them to look at each other comfortably. "I shall be the judge of that," he said. "Off with your clothes."

"I've got the feeling that we've done that once already."

"This time I won't threaten to burn them, you should be pleased with that." Thranduil tugged at the back of Bard's tunic. "Off with them and into the water with you."

"Does it change anything if I tell you that I washed properly this morning?" Bard asked, only half serious about it. "Behind my ears and everything."

Thranduil moved in for one more kiss, which made it only more tempting to skip that whole idea of bathing in favour of looking for a more suitable place somewhere. "No," he murmured against Bard's lips and reached for the hem of his tunic. "But I'll check."

Bard took a step backwards, not quite certain whether to draw this out or be cooperative. Thranduil followed, a predatory glint to his bright grey eyes, and Bard kept moving out of sheer principle. 

Then his foot came down on nothing and before he could shift his weight to his other leg, he was already stumbling. 

For a moment he felt himself in the air with nothing of his body touching the ground anymore. Then he hit something hard and soft at the same time that his startled mind figured out to be water, and he barely had time to draw a sharp breath before he went under. 

He came up again a moment later, sputtering and flailing until his still booted feet found the ground. Experimentally he stood up straight and found that the surprisingly warm water reached up to his chest. Pushing wet strands of hair out of his face, he glared up at Thranduil, who was watching him without even bothering to hide his amusement. 

"It is customary among Elves to take off all clothes before bathing," Thranduil drawled. "Is it different among Men?"

Bard didn't dignify that with a response and instead gave in to the inevitable, raising his hands to tug open the fastenings at the collar of his tunic before the leather strings could become unworkable in the water. He wriggled out of the soaked, clinging garment with some difficulty, then tossed it at Thranduil, who casually sidestepped the missile. It landed on the stone floor behind him with a wet slap.

"You'll find a ledge carved into the pool over on that side, by the steps," Thranduil told him with a wave of his hand. "It may be easier to take off your boots there."

Bard glared up at him, then reached for the pool's wall to steady himself and stepped on the heel of his left boot with his right to try and slip out. It didn't budge; instead he lost his balance and almost went under once more before he could steady himself. This wasn't going to work, he knew that from past experience, but he'd be damned if he admitted defeat so easily. 

A smirk on his face, Thranduil watched his next few attempts, then shrugged off his robe and set it aside on one of the low benches along the wall. His kaftan followed, leaving him bare-chested, and by the time he bent to unlace his knee-high boots, Bard had given up all pretense and was simply enjoying the sight. It wasn't the first time he saw Thranduil undress, but so far he hadn't been afforded such a splendid view. The boots came off, then the shimmering, tight-fitting breeches, and Bard decided that perhaps he wasn't quite that irritated by Elvish obsessions with bathing anymore. Clearly aware of his audience, Thranduil gave him a slow, lingering look and swiftly tied his long, pale hair back in a loose braid, twisting it up at the nape of his neck in the kind of effortless knot Bard had never managed for his daughters when his assistance had still been required.

Stepping into the bath in a considerably less dramatic fashion than Bard had done, Thranduil once more gestured for him to take a seat. 

"You aren't going to toss me into your bath every time you want my clothes off, are you?" Bard asked as he hoisted himself up on the underwater ledge. Around them the water rippled in small waves, lapping at the basin’s edges.

"It's hardly my fault that your balance is so poor," Thranduil countered, reaching into the water to lift Bard's leg. A few firm tugs and his left boot finally came off with a splash of water, followed by the right. "Now show me that knee."

"Is that all you're after?" Bard asked, attempting a leer that was blatantly ignored.

"For now, yes." Thranduil made swift work of Bard’s breeches and deposited them at at the edge of the pool in a puddle along with his poor, soaked boots, then frowned down into the clear water. 

"I told you my knee is fine," Bard said.

"Is that why it's such a lovely shade of blue?"

"That's not my knee."

Thranduil shot him a look full of exasperation. "Are you truly going to argue that detail?" he asked and grasped Bard's thigh just above the bruise, firmly enough to make him flinch away in an instinctive attempt to protect the injury. Water sloshed around him at the abrupt move, disturbing the pattern of little ripples on the surface. "Or would you rather I leave this as it is?"

Bard sighed. His thigh did ache, and the hours in the saddle today hadn't made it any better. He wasn't going to refuse this out of sheer pride. "Do we need to get some kingsfoil?"

"We are in my realm, in my halls. It won't be necessary." Again Thranduil touched his leg, his grip gentler this time, and Bard felt heat spread along his thigh from where the Elf's hand rested. "What happened?"

For a moment Bard considered his answer, then opted for the truth, or at least part of it. "I slipped and fell against a pile of bricks. Bad luck, nothing more."

"And why did you fall?" Thranduil asked as he traced the edge of the bruise, his fingers even warmer than the water. 

Bard briefly looked away, then met his eyes again and grimaced, in part because he didn't want to pursue the topic, in part because a muscle in his thigh decided to launch into a cramp that was soothed away again almost immediately, along with the last traces of pain. "Imrahil and I had a scrap. He didn't intend this." 

Thranduil frowned. "I will speak to him."

Raising his hand from the water, Bard caught Thranduil's chin, leaving wet traces behind. "Don't. I don't want you to talk to him. And right now, I don't particularly want you to talk _of_ him either."

Thranduil cocked his head, his fingers now drawing lazy, highly distracting patterns on the inside of his thigh before that hand drifted away again. "Is that so? In that case, what would you have me do?"

In lieu of a spoken answer, Bard reeled him in for a kiss that was more deliberate, more demanding than before. "I may have a few suggestions," he murmured as Thranduil nudged his knees apart to crowd him against the wall at his back, "they might be against Elvish bathing etiquette, though. If there is such a thing."

Hands braced against the edge of the bath on either side of Bard's shoulders, Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "There is," he said, leaning in to whisper in Bard's ear, "and you broke it already when you hopped in with your dirty boots on, so I'd say that it's too late anyway."

The reply that had been on the tip of Bard's tongue turned into a gasp when Thranduil sharply nipped the sensitive juncture of his jaw and throat, lingering until he'd raised a bright spot of heat that was bound to bruise. Bard briefly wondered whether he'd manage enough of a beard until the morning to hide it, then got distracted entirely when Thranduil moved in to kiss him in earnest. 

For a little while Bard let himself sink into the simple pleasure of that kiss, the heat of Thranduil's thighs against the insides of his knees, the quiet splash of water, the way his wrist was caught and held firm when he began to let his hand roam. He'd missed Thranduil's company over the winter, but he'd be lying to himself if he denied that he'd missed this physical side as well.

Eventually he became bored with holding still when it was far more tempting to keep on exploring; he moved his wrist against the restraining grip until Thranduil let go and drew back far enough to cast him an inquisitive look. 

"I could grow to like baths in this fashion," Bard reached out to trace Thranduil's collarbone from his shoulder to the dip at his throat before following the downward line of his sternum. Briefly he lingered, palm resting against the smooth chest to feel it rise and fall a few times, faster than Thranduil’s usually calm breathing. He experimentally let his fingers brush across a nipple, teasing briefly, and grinned at the gasp he managed to draw. 

"Scandalous," Thranduil told him. "First the boots, now this... such a violation of proper bathing manners." He wasn't too bothered by it, though, if his deliberately wandering touches were any indication, first at Bard's knee, then lingering further up his thigh where the now healed bruise had been. 

Bard shot him a look that was half amused, half impatient. "Stop fussing about that knee, that's dealt with and really not something you need to be concerned about right now."

The glint in Thranduil's eyes turned downright predatory. "Is that so?" he drawled, then moved his hand higher, sending underwater currents whirling along Bard’s thigh, along with a shiver of anticipation. "And what might you be concerned with?"

Bard's mind was suddenly a lot busier with possibilities than with coming up with a coherent answer, so it took him a moment to string a sentence together. "I think you're on the right track."

Humming in agreement, Thranduil drifted closer and leaned in to rub their noses together, fingers rising up to stroke Bard's cheek in slow, wet patterns, an unexpectedly restrained counterpoint to their growing arousal. For a few moments Bard let him before tilting his head for another kiss, and all restraint was soon left behind. 

The water dragged at his arms as Bard smoothed his hands down along Thranduil's back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades and feeling the shift of muscles under his skin before dropping lower to grip his arse and try to bring them even closer together. He'd missed this over the winter, these simple opportunities to touch and be touched. Just as he'd missed the pleasure that came from these touches, and to finally be able to do more than just delve into memories. Now it made him grumble with impatience when their surroundings were turning out to be more hindrance than help. As enticing as it might be to have Thranduil's hips rock against his own, it just wasn’t enough to really get them anywhere. Which could have been interesting under different, more patient circumstances, but after long winter months with just his imagination and his hand for company, it wasn't nearly enough. 

"This isn't working," Bard muttered flatly and leaned forward with a splash to almost desperately try for more. He managed to find a position that seemed reasonably promising, but it didn't do much to alleviate the more pressing matters. 

"There is a bed available that is perfectly suitable," Thranduil suggested, but allowed Bard to push him backwards towards the shallower part of the bath, perhaps more out of curiosity than anything else. Bard harboured very few illusions about his ability to move an Elf who didn't want to be moved. 

"I'm not going to be thwarted by your glorified bathtub," Bard growled as he stood and stepped forward, though it was hard not to smile at the ridiculousness of it all. "I'll figure this out."

"By all means," Thranduil drawled, the beginnings of his own smile in response creeping onto his face. He deliberately leaned closer again, the way his cock brushed against Bard's thigh a frustrating tease. "Do as you please."

In the end it wasn't too hard to work it all out. The physical proximity was what Bard really wanted, along with the opportunity it awarded him to let his hands roam freely as they leaned together, Thranduil’s head bent so Bard could claim his mouth. It wasn’t entirely perfect - though Bard figured that practice might help, if they ever got to it - but it was just enough as they shifted closer together, balancing each other. A bed might be more comfortable indeed, but that would require climbing out of the bath, drying, dressing, and probably an hour’s walk along those annoyingly curving raised paths that made every way thrice as long as it had to be. Bard’s patience definitely wasn’t up to that right now, not with the rising urgency in his blood. 

"Elves, you just have to make everything complicated," he murmured against the hollow of Thranduil’s throat in mock complaint. 

"There are reasons why certain activities are not to be pursued in the baths," Thranduil countered, a hiss escaping him when Bard trailed lower across his chest, teasing a nipple with tongue and teeth until the hiss turned into a breathy moan. 

Bard grinned up at him. "You're the king here. And I've never been good with rules. I'm sure we can handle it."

Under his lips the muscles of Thranduil's stomach tensed as he made his way down until he felt the water lap at at his chin. For a moment he speculated about using his mouth, then discarded the idea as something that definitely belonged into surroundings with less risk of drowning. He couldn’t resist entirely, though, and ducked his head for a swift lick along Thranduil’s cock, tasting water and the faintest hint of something else he couldn’t name but recognised from their past times together. Before the need for air could ruin the mood he came up again, smirking at the murmur of pleasure that Bard took as definite encouragement, just like the hand that wound its way into his hair, perfectly balanced between pain and pleasure.

"I'm not certain I should allow such a... such a violation of rules and manners," Thranduil murmured, reaching to draw him up again so they could share a kiss that just added to the growing heat between them, an almost feral glint in his eyes. Along with his long hair gradually coming loose and his chest glistening with water droplets it made for a splendid sight, for once almost ruffled rather than polished and proper. 

Bard smirked up at him and batted his eyelids. "Let's see if I can't convince you," he said as he leaned in to nuzzle at the underside of Thranduil’s jaw and pushed his hand down between them to grip their cocks and finally give them both what they wanted. 

He was fairly sure they broke a few more rules about bathing afterwards, but he definitely wasn't going to complain. 

He was also fairly sure that the small, freezing cold waterfall Thranduil later shoved him under to rinse off was a vague kind of revenge. The Elf certainly looked far too smug at all the gasping and sputtering. 

Eventually they ended up in Thranduil's bedroom, where a few braziers had been lit to combat the bite of cold the air still carried even inside the halls. Bard didn't ask why, when Thranduil wasn't bothered by the chill. Just as he refused to wonder about the guards he saw along the way and what they might think of seeing him follow their king to his private quarters, wearing a borrowed robe that was so obviously of Elvish make. 

It was a comfortable robe, soft and surprisingly warm despite the lightness of the cloth; not that he was ever going to admit that if he ever wanted to see his own clothes again. But he liked the sensation of the smooth fabric against his skin, cool to the touch but at the same time not cold. Just like the sheets on Thranduil's bed, though Bard was still happy to move close to him for the shared body heat. There was something about Elves where that was concerned. Bard could have sworn they were just a little warmer to the touch than Men, hardly noticeable but enough to make the difference between a cold bed and a wonderfully warm one. 

"I'm a little surprised your bedroom has a door," Bard said when they'd settled into bed, facing each other amid the cushions which were naturally decorated with far too many tassels and decorative stitching for any normal person. Comfortable, of course, and far softer than any cushions Bard had ever experienced, but still far too elaborate. In this they matched the room itself, from the pillars carved to look like trees to the finely woven rugs and perfectly embroidered tapestries on the walls. There even were plants growing within glass spheres, and if he hadn’t been curled up against Thranduil’s side already and reluctant to move, Bard would have taken a closer look at that. 

Thranduil gave a brief huff of laughter. "You shouldn't be. Elves dislike drafts just as much as you."

"Then why don't you have walls half of the time? Your halls are beautiful, I'm not going to deny that, but from what I've seen today seen today, privacy has to be hard to come by. No doors, no walls… It's strange." 

There was a brief pause while Thranduil considered his answer, his hand drawing lazy patterns up and down Bard’s side under the robe. "Habit, perhaps," he said eventually. "It's different in the settlements aboveground, you'd find them more like what you are accustomed to. But here in the halls, life has always been lived out in the open." Again he paused, not commenting upon Bard moving to entangle their legs, but letting him do so without protest. "This started out as a military outpost to shelter the realm against the north, so there was no real need for separation. And later there never was a need to adapt it."

"When was that?"

"Almost two thousand years ago," Thranduil said, then seemed to notice Bard's attempts to place this in what he knew of the land's past. "Close to the time of your King Vidugavia." 

That name was familiar, though a little unexpected. "He was real?"

Thranduil chuckled. "Very much so. If you listen closely, you may still hear the echoes of his iron-soled boots as he stomps along the paths of my halls. He was ever welcome here, but he was very unlike us. Very… loud." 

"I can sympathise," Bard said and thought of Dwarvish table manners and Elvish frolicking in the fountains. He liked them all well enough and was glad to have them as allies, but at times their different customs were simply baffling.

Reaching out, Thranduil brushed warm, smooth fingers against his cheek, tracing the line of his beard. "You and your people are much closer to us in your ways. Vidugavia was a prince of the Northmen of old, and they still kept many of their old traditions."

"My grandmother used to tell stories about him. My favourite always was the one about his oldest daughter Vidumavi, his most fearless warrior, and how she sailed her winged ship into battle for him on the Long Lake."

"A winged ship?" Thranduil asked, clearly amused at the thought.

Bard mock-scowled at him. "I'm sure it would have been very useful. When you spend half your days fighting the river currents with rows and sails, a winged ship sounds simply too good. I may have been a little bit smitten with her when I was nine."

"Vidumavi liked bold company. If there hadn't been sixty generations between you, who knows what might have been."

"A warrior princess? I'm not sure what I'd do with one of those." 

Thranduil leaned in, brushing their noses lightly together for a moment. "Perhaps it is good that I am not a princess, then."

Bard laughed, then closed the remaining distance between them for a brief kiss, no real intent behind it just now beyond a show of affection. "I can attest to that. Though I'm definitely interested if you have a winged ship. That would have made the trips upriver so much easier." 

"The only such ship I know of is Vingilot, and she hasn't sailed the waters of Middle-earth for a long time now." Thranduil slowly exhaled, briefly looking lost in thought, and seemed almost startled when Bard shifted closer and slung an arm across his waist. Lifting a hand, he threaded it into Bard’s hair to comb through it. "But if there is another one built, you may be able to stake a claim as one of the princess' blood. Vidugavia was among Girion's ancestors."

"Sixty generations away, that's hardly something I'd base an inheritance on." It was strange to once again be aware how far apart they were in years, when Thranduil could talk about men and women as though they'd crossed his path only days ago while they had lived in a past when neither Lake-town nor Dale had existed yet. "How much else of the stories is true?"

"What stories are Men telling to their children these days?"

Bard thought back to those long winter evenings when he'd listened to his grandmother's quiet voice. She'd been too frail already at the time to do much more than entertain children with her tales, and it had been her way to stay useful. "That there was a stable boy at his court who really was a prince of Gondor in disguise, and that the princess fell in love with him. Together they led their warriors to reclaim his throne, and then ruled together."

Thranduil gave a quiet hum. "Not entirely accurate, but kinder than history has been to them and thus a better tale."

"Tales are supposed to be better than what happened," Bard said, scooting a little more towards Thranduil and making himself comfortable against his side. "You should hear Percy's stories one of these days. Or perhaps you shouldn't, they're outrageous. He's not allowed to tell them anywhere except in the tavern, and the tavern's sunk now. Probably for the best, too."

"So my ears won't be sullied by such terrible stories?"

Bard pushed himself up to lightly nip at one pointy ear and got a pleased gasp for his efforts. "As I said, it's for the best."

"Is that so?" Thranduil dragged him back down and drew him into a kiss that started out almost chaste but quickly deepened. Bard happily went along with it even if it felt almost decadent after their earlier bout, and let himself be pushed back against the frilly cushions. He wasn’t sure he really was up to this again so soon, but he was certainly tempted enough to give it a try.

Elves and their ways, he thought as he tilted his head and bared his throat to Thranduil's exploring lips. He might just get used to them.

***

The Woodland Realm's council to the Elvenking was a new concept to Bard.

Lake-town been ruled by a Master and a handful of advisors for as long as Bard could remember. Some of them had been better, most of them had been worse, and none had been what the people had deserved. But there'd never been much of a choice about it, though the Master was nominally elected in what was supposed to be a honoured, hallowed process that had been thoroughly corrupted over the years. 

They hadn't figured out yet how it was supposed to be in Dale, except for Bard's vain attempts to talk everybody out of their crazy idea that he was supposed to be their sodding lord. Bard was the one to carry out negotiations and make the kinds of decisions someone had to take responsibility for, and those who'd been respected in Lake-town dealt with whatever his attention couldn't cover. Percy had grown into something like his advisor where trade and other financial matters were concerned, Hilda managed their supplies, and while neither of them liked to admit it, Imrahil was acting as the leader of the Elvish warriors and Dale's makeshift militia. It was all about improvisation, and probably would stay like that for a while yet. 

"I'm still not sure what they want of me," he said as he walked with Thranduil along one of the many raised paths to the council's chamber. "You could tell them the same about Dale that I can. Or Sigrid could have done it."

Thranduil cast him a glance from the corner of his eye that said he was being very patient while listening to something ridiculous. "They wish to have an introduction to the Lord of Dale. You're our newest neighbour, you're an ally at the moment and your realm borders mine directly. They want to have your measure."

Bard rolled his eyes. Diplomacy. Always such fun. "In that case they could simply have come to Dale and look around themselves. I promise I won't put them to work if they do."

"A very reassuring notion." Their path joined with another that rose from a lower level, and Thranduil slowed at the junction to make them both wait for an Elf to come up and join them. Judging by her fine clothes that rivalled Thranduil’s own, she probably was one of the more important ones.

She gave a perfunctory nod of her head that probably was intended as a bow, and proceeded to ignore Bard entirely. "Lord Thranduil."

"Lady Tiriwen," Thranduil returned the greeting as she fell into step with them, the short train of her robes sweeping the floor behind them. It was a sight that never failed to faintly irritate Bard, because it seemed such a waste of clean clothing, though in the halls at least the ground was practically spotless. Probably from being constantly polished in this way. 

She looked on ahead, hands tucked into her sleeves in what Bard was coming to recognise was an ingrained Elvish gesture whenever they wore those impractical robes that could double as blankets for an entire family."The council will have assembled already. They don't expect their king to be delayed."

Thranduil's expression was hard to read. "There's no reason for them to expect it." 

"Just so," she agreed. "And they'll have been there early today, out of sheer curiosity over your guest."

Bard didn't even want to begin to guess just how many layers he was missing in this brief conversation. He just leaned forward so he could get a better look at her face, rather than just her dark hair and blue court robes, and aimed for a smile somewhere between polite and friendly. "I hope I'm interesting enough." 

She gave him a measuring look that was clearly unimpressed. It made him feel like he was a measly insect she’d found under a stone she’d turned over. "We'll see, Lord Bard."

"The Lady Tiriwen is not so easily excited," Thranduil offered, reaching to briefly rest his hand against the small of Bard's back and steer him to the left at the next crossing. They stepped through a wide gateway framed in stone-carved trees, and the birds in the branches were so finely carved that Bard had to look twice and still wasn't certain that they weren't real after all. 

The gate opened into a hall carved deep into the rock, the walls solid and without gaps and windows to the caverns surrounding it. An unusual sight for Thranduil's halls, where Bard had come to expect to be able to freely look into every room. But this place felt different, older and more forbidding. The thirteen Elves seated in a circle in finely carved, high-backed chairs - each with shining circlets on their heads - only added to that sense of secrecy. It didn't help that at least half of them looked at Bard as though his mere presence here was faintly offensive. 

Thranduil had explained the overall rules to him, how the council's decision making process was handled and what impact those decisions then had on actual policies. It was something that had had time to grow and be adjusted for millennia, and by now it sounded like something that should never work in practice. The council had the right to recommend decisions, but not demand them. Thranduil had the right to ignore them and do as he pleased, but didn't. The council's members were chosen by the king, but only after they'd been put forward as their settlement or tribe's choice. Any of Thranduil's decisions could be vetoed by the council indefinitely, but that right was never executed because neither he nor the councilors ever let it reach that point.

It was all so delicately crafted, with so many unspoken rules, that Bard felt a headache coming at the mere thought of maintaining balance in this system. 

Squaring his shoulders, he struggled not to say anything as he took his own seat, not quite as fine as the ones of the assembled lords and ladies. Thranduil hadn't given him a lot of advice this morning; most of what he'd said had boiled down to a recommendation to simply be honest and truthful about whatever questions might be asked. There had also been stern reminders that as the Lord of Dale, Bard was on equal footing with these representatives of the various settlements and tribes within the Woodland Realm, and that he didn't have to accept any disrespect. 

He wondered if that meant he should demand a nicer chair. 

"Councilors," Thranduil greeted them as he swept across the open space in their midst, today's red and silver robe trailing behind him. They bowed their heads as he passed, and Bard watched appreciatively as he settled down with his usual flourish and slowly looked around at the assembled group. "At your request the Lord of Dale has joined us and he will answer what questions the council may have. "

Tiriwen had remained standing, though she'd moved to the half of the councilors' circle to Thranduil's right. "My Lord," she said, "we thank you for fulfilling our wish so swiftly."

"And thus has Lord Bard made the journey to my halls," Thranduil looked at her, then across the floor at Bard. "I thank him for doing so when there are many other matters which require his attention."

"As do we," Tiriwen said swiftly, then sketched the barest hint of a bow in Bard's general direction without truly looking at him. "I do believe that our concerns warrant a quick response."

"We appreciate the co-operation from our new ally," another dark-haired Elf from the left side of the circle said. She had the sharper features and larger ears Bard had grown to recognise as Silvan rather than Sindar, though the lines were too fluid between the two groups for him to be certain in some cases.

Bard gave her a quick nod in acknowledgment, though he didn't believe for a moment that this was mere friendliness.

"Do you wish to speak first, Yávien?" Tiriwen asked. "I'm willing to yield the circle to you in that case."

She shook her head. "You were the one who demanded this council meeting, we should hear you first. As far as I am concerned, this isn't necessary."

"These matters should be examined diligently before any more permanent decisions are made," Tiriwen said, then turned towards Thranduil. "My Lord, I ask you to consider our worries."

"I will listen," Thranduil told her calmly. "As I will listen to the Lady Yávien, and any others who have something to say." Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs and propped one elbow up on the armrest, then gestured for them to go ahead.

Tiriwen exchanged swift looks with a group of Elves on her side of the council chamber, then glided to the center of the floor. There were interwoven ribbons carved into the flagstones and she followed the pattern for a few steps before coming to a stop in front of Bard. "This won't take long, Lord of Dale. I'm aware that you'd rather spend the time with your daughters."

Bard gave her his best harmless look, the one that had gotten him into trouble with the Master so many times, and out of tough spots on so many more occasions. "I'm sure I can handle this, and that they'll be patient. After all, I've been told that this is important."

"It is." Tiriwen watched him for a few breaths, then her gaze sharpened. "I wonder, how important are the Elves who currently guard your town?"

The question wasn't what he'd expected, and it left him cautious. "They keep us safe from marauders," he said. "There have been a few attempts over the winter to raid us."

"So Lord Imrahil has been fighting for you?"

"There wasn't much fighting to be done in most cases. Usually the bandits turn tail when they see that we've got Dwarf-built walls and plenty of Elven fighters to guard them."

Tiriwen cocked her head. "The Dwarves don't add to your defense?"

"They rebuilt our walls."

"But they don't send any of their own?" Tiriwen asked.

Bard frowned at her. "King Dáin, King Thranduil and I negotiated this in autumn already. It's hardly a secret. The Dwarves make sure Dale's got walls without holes and the Elves deal with the rest."

"And your own people?"

He snorted. "Do what they can, but if we had to rely only on ourselves, we might as well abandon Dale now and look for a town somewhere that's got room for a few hundred people. Lake-town wasn't a garrison, in case you weren't aware of that. Only a handful of those who made it to Dale really know how to fight, and it's going to take time to train the rest."

From the glint in her eyes, he could tell that he'd misstepped. On the other hand Thranduil looked faintly amused from where he was listening, the same expression he usually wore during talks with the Dwarves when he knew he'd have the upper hand. 

Bard had the growing suspicion that he'd gotten caught up in a disagreement among the Elves, and his people along with him. 

"So you need our host," Tiriwen said, turning away from him and towards the other Elves. "Our troops fight on behalf of a barely functioning settlement, while the Dwarves sit inside their mountain and watch as Elvish blood is being shed. I know myself not to be the only one to question whether this should continue. What good is this to us? The Woodland Realm will endure, as we have done before."

Yávien stood up as well, though she remained right in front of her chair. "War has come to their borders, and it would not have stopped there," she said to the assembled councilors. "We have allied ourselves with Men before, and even with Dwarves."

"And much good has it done us." Tiriwen folded her arms and stood straight as she turned back to Bard. "The council asks what you want, Lord of Dale. We ask what you will do."

Fourteen Elves watched him with those disconcertingly blank gazes they could manage. Only Thranduil was studying his councilors instead, the hint of a sardonic smile on his face. For some reason it was a lot more irritating than Tiriwen's aggression. 

Bard drew a slow breath, then released it again. What was he supposed to tell them? That he wasn't looking further than the coming weeks right now? They didn't even know yet what to do about the planting season; there was no way to tell yet whether the land between Dale and the gates to the Lonely Mountain was still arable after getting baked by dragonfire for two centuries. Right now he did the best he could, they all did, and it was barely enough to let them see the next few days. 

"What I want?" he repeated and saw Thranduil lean forward slightly. "What I want? That's simple. I want my people to have a decent life. We've lost everything when that sodding dragon came, and we didn't have much to start with. I don't even know how many died that night, you'll have to ask downriver how many bodies they fished out of the river."

"There are easier ways to give them this life you crave for them, and the Woodland Realm might assist you in this," Tiriwen said. "We are not heartless, we wouldn't want your people to suffer. It honours you that you strive to give them another start, but why in Dale, where so many resources are required? Where Elves will have to guard you for a decade or longer when those warriors could be of use elsewhere?"

Yávien stepped forward into the circle now. "A few hundred won't make a difference to our strength, but in Dale they secure our eastern flank and help an ally."

"Who has fallen twice already, and who may fall again," Tiriwen countered. "Do we want to see whether the third time does the trick, or should we help them find a future in another place? Lord Calemir could settle them downriver. Let them grow wine, not catch fish."

"They fell to the dragon, not an enemy host." Yávien shook her head. "Unique circumstances that shouldn't factor in a decision. Just because someone cannot withstand a dragon does not make them defenceless."

"I killed the dragon. By your reckoning, that must make us formidable enough to be useful." His hands gripping the armrests of his chair, Bard drew a slow breath. When he glanced at Thranduil, all he got in response was a small wave towards the center of the floor that was probably meant as an invitation. 

He squared his jaw and got up from his chair; when he stepped forward, Tiriwen held her position and the sleeve of his coat brushed against her robes when he walked past her to the middle of the council chamber, highly aware of the eyes on him. 

"I'm going to do whatever is necessary to give my people a chance," he went on, and it was an effort to keep his voice even. "And I can't tell you much more than that. I don't know what we'll need in the summer, or in a year or ten years. Right now we need the Dwarves and the Elves, and we'll repay our debts.”

Tiriwen didn’t even bother to turn her head and face him; instead she kept looking at Thranduil. “And how will you do that? With your share of the accursed treasure in the Dwarves’ mouldering caves? Why should that be of value to us?”

“It’s been valuable enough to make you dispatch an army!”

“That was not a command the council supported unanimously.”

On his chair, Thranduil managed to settle into an even more dismissive posture. “I should yield my place to you, Lady Tiriwen. Perhaps that will cause you less displeasure.”

Bard couldn’t see her face, so he didn’t know whether the smile he thought he heard in her voice was really there. Somehow he had his doubts. Perhaps she was baring her teeth in a snarl, that seemed more likely. “And why should I be fool enough to accept such an offer?”

“I see I shall have to keep you as the thorn in my side.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, she bowed her head in what was probably the barely acceptable minimum. “I serve my king,” she said, then finally turned around to let Bard see her expression. It wasn’t a particularly kind one. “Which is why I must ask questions, Lord of Dale.”

"Then ask them," he said, struggling not to let his irritation at the situation show. "Whatever you're trying to prove, I don't appreciate it that you're turning Dale into a toy for you to play with. Do you know how many lives depend on this? Have you bothered to ask?"

Tiriwen regarded him, her face now pleasantly blank.

"More than three hundred,” he went on. “And each and every one of us has fought with all we've got to get this far! Maybe we aren't as strong as you Elves, maybe we aren't what you're looking for in an ally. But I'll be damned if I let you make us seem worthless!"

Around him, the council's attention was rapidly sharpening. Absently he wondered if anyone had ever raised their voice in this chamber before. Elves could be bloody confrontational, he knew that, but they didn't strike him as the kind that grew particularly loud about it.

"Do you even have a reason for your questions, or is it just a game? I know what my people need. What I don't know is whether you'll be willing to give it to me." He drew a slow, deliberate breath to try and calm himself a little. "So it's probably me who should be asking about what you want, because you're the ones who'll need to figure that out. Let me know when you've got an answer to that for me."

With that he turned around and left.

***

"You could have warned me," Bard growled an hour later when he'd been taken to see the Elvenking in his study.

From where he stood at the small, round… pond, or whatever it was, Thranduil turned to look at him, his face blank with infuriatingly calm contemplation. "About my council?"

"The questions they'd ask!" he snapped back. "What was I supposed to tell them, that right now our greatest concern is that we need a new roof for the cowshed? I don't think that's what they wanted to hear!"

"They don't know much about the situation in Dale, so it might have put things in perspective for them." Thranduil tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes, the fabric shimmering in the muted daylight that lit the room along with the lamps. "They have their agendas, but they are wise enough to ask questions and listen to the answers."

Bard moved forward sharply and thought he saw Thranduil straighten in response, though he made no move to retreat. It still left him with a small, dark pang of satisfaction. "In that case, get them to explain to me what answers they found, will you? Because I haven't got the foggiest idea about anything beyond the next few weeks, and I really didn't need to have that rubbed in right in front of your bloody council!"

"You did rather well, all things considered." Thranduil looked back at the mirror-smooth surface of the pool as if it weren't completely ludicrous to have a pond in the middle of his study. 

"I did well? At what point did you arrive at that conclusion?" Exhaling sharply, Bard shook his head and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. "That's not going to inspire a lot of confidence, is it? If that's even what this travesty was all about. What did they even want? Or is that another moment of Elves being their mysterious, sodding annoying selves? Was I just there to provide some bloody entertainment?"

Thranduil didn't turn back to look at him even when he began to pace. "They needed to see the Lord of Dale." 

"What for?" Bard demanded to know. "To ask me about my intentions? You could have told them that, you probably know better than I do right now. Or did they need to see for themselves that the Lord of Dale is nothing but a bargeman?" He banged his fist against one of the carved rock columns, almost relishing the blunt sting of it against his hand. "A former bargeman, because I bloody well don't even have that sodding barge anymore!"

"It hardly makes a difference what you did. Now you lead your people." Thranduil did shift to face him at that point, his expression stern. "I had hoped that we'd be done with this particular conversation by now. They have put their faith in you, and I agree with their choice. It's long past due for you to accept this and move on."

Bard stalked towards him, though having to look slightly upwards detracted some effectiveness. "This isn't about me accepting it! I still don't like it, but I'll do this for as long as the people want me to."

"So what is it?"

He became aware that his hands had curled into fists and forced himself to stretch his palms flat. "I've been born on the lake, I've grown up there. I know every current on the River Running, I know where sand banks and shallows are and I know the best ways through the old ruins that are so narrow that nobody else could sail them without running aground. You want someone to safely get your cargo up and down the river even in the worst storm, you can look at me because I've got enough sense to figure out whether I can still sail or need to find a safe spot along the shore. Those are things I know, and I'm damned good at them, because I've grown up doing them! But I don't know the least about running a city! Until those bloody Dwarves set a dragon loose on my people I've never even had to think about it!"

Thranduil watched him, completely and utterly still, and he felt the anger rise inside in response to that indifference. It was easy for the Elvenking to consider this a minor issue; he'd probably seen far worse over the centuries, and he'd also _had_ centuries to work out what to do about it. Bard had been given mere weeks for the same task.

"The people in Dale listen to me because I had the guts to stand up to the Master whenever his politics became unbearable, much good as that did me," he went on, growing tenser by the moment. "But that's not going to turn me into someone who knows how to turn a refugee camp into a functioning city, is it? Half the time I've got no idea what I'm doing and believe me, I'm bloody well aware of that! So why can't anyone else finally bugger off and accept that I don't know a damn about this? I don't need a council of bloody Elvish wankers to remind me of it!"

Thranduil's eyebrows rose, though he didn't voice any objections at having his councilors thus insulted. 

"If they want to be all high and mighty about us needing Elves or Dwarves or sodding mermaids to just make it through the winter, I'm open for suggestions!"

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched. "I don't believe mermaids exist."

"That's not my point!" Bard practically shouted, taking another half-step forward and straightening so he didn't have to look up so much to defiantly meet Thranduil's eyes. "Do you think I don't know I need to learn? The last thing I need is a sanctimonious Elf lady to rub it in! And don't think I didn't notice that they're using me in whatever game they're playing. I don't believe for a moment that they're actually concerned about Dale!"

Thranduil calmly held his gaze. "They are, although perhaps not in a way you would endorse. There are some who would prefer to see Dale as a strong ally."

"And some who don't?" Bard almost snarled. "So they're toying with us? Do they even care what happens to us, or are we just a few scraggly Men to them who'll soon die anyway?"

"The fate of Dale matters, as you very well know. We are allies in this."

"Because you decided to be! But your council doesn't agree, do they? So what's going to happen, are they going to make you withdraw the Elves from Dale?" Bard glanced up at the ceiling to escape those far too knowing eyes, then sidestepped when Thranduil's unmoving presence so close became too much. "I can't- What's going to happen to us then? There's no way we'll make it, not when we are half a year away from any harvest we manage to have. If we have one, and nobody knows the least about that." 

Thranduil didn't say anything in reply and merely continued to watch him when Bard risked a glance, his face unnervingly unreadable in the muted, warm light. Bard turned his head and averted his eyes to look at the pool set into the floor instead, and absently wondered what the point of it was when it looked too shallow to be truly useful.

"What am I going to do if we can't grow enough food?" he asked, not sure whether he expected an answer. "We can't rely on you forever. There isn't nearly enough game to feed a few hundred people, and fishing's not going to be good either anytime soon, all the boats and gear are gone. I suppose we could always use the gold from the Lonely Mountain to buy supplies from somewhere, but why bother transporting it so far?" He drew a slow breath to steady himself, then another. "This has to work. We've got to make it work, or we might as well abandon Dale after all. I just don't know how."

The hand on his shoulder startled him enough to make him flinch under the light grip. "What is needed will be done," Thranduil told him, still calm as if they were discussing a minor matter and not so many futures. "I promised you and your people aid, and I don't give my word lightly."

"I know." Bard raised a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, then let it drop again in sheer frustration. He tried to cling to his anger; that was far easier to handle than the despair that was creeping up in his throat and threatening to choke him. "That, I know." 

In acknowledgment of his words, the hold on his shoulder tightened slightly. He held himself stiffly distant in response, unwilling to give in to that comfort. 

Thranduil’s thumb slipped into the collar of his tunic, the barest point of contact. For a little while neither of them moved further, then Thranduil began to trace minute circles against his skin, innocuous and yet so draining on the anger that kept Bard’s back rigid. He shifted into the touch, then turned in and leaned closer. When there was no discernible objection, he slipped an arm low around Thranduil's waist to bring them together, his cheek settling into the crook of Thranduil's neck. For a few heartbeats he simply held on and breathed, the warmth of Thranduil's skin almost tangible through his elaborate high-collared tunic. 

He was still focused on regaining his equilibrium when he felt Thranduil complete the embrace, hands carefully coming to rest just below his shoulder blades. The Elf didn't say anything, he simply held still and waited, the slow rise and fall of his chest against Bard's the only discernible movement. 

It was the calmest moment Bard had had in months, and he gradually forced his mind to stop spinning with thoughts of risks and dangers and almost insurmountable problems. Instead he focused on the finely embroidered fabric under his cheek and the faint scent in his nose, almost like the Forest River on a sunny day, which was a notion ridiculous enough to make him chuckle. 

Thranduil gave an inquisitive hum, slightly tightening his hold but not moving beyond that. 

"Just an irreverent thought," Bard told him, his voice not much above a whisper. Those Elven ears would hear him anyway, and as long as they weren't talking properly, he wouldn't have to straighten, square his shoulders and step back again. 

Something like laughter rumbled in his ear. "Naturally. I can't picture you thinking anything else. Irreverent to the bone."

Bard heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, letting Thranduil take his weight just a little longer. "And still getting into trouble for it."

He felt Thranduil's cheek coming to rest against the top of his head. "You enjoy it."

It was hard to entirely deny it, so Bard didn't. "I'd have had fewer troubles in my life if I didn't," he said instead. 

"You also wouldn't have seen the look in Thorin's eyes when you toyed with his family heirloom as though it were a turnip."

When he closed his eyes, Bard could still feel an echo of the rush of that moment when he'd thought that they'd won the battle with Thorin's warning arrow the only one to be fired. "Sounds like you enjoyed that, too."

"It certainly was memorable." Thranduil slowly trailed a circle on his back, then lifted his head to brush his lips against the rounded tip of Bard's ear. It felt like punctuation to the calm that had settled around them, and Thranduil's next words confirmed that. "It's a good trait in a leader to question what happens and what you're told."

Bard took a last slow breath, then leaned back far enough to meet his grey eyes. "In that case I'm going to have to find lands to rule for my children, they're taking after me where that's concerned." And he was proud of them for it, even though it was bound to get them into just as much trouble as it had so often landed him in. But if the alternative was to see them scraping and bowing before someone like the Master, then trouble had to be worth it.

"I daresay there's going to be enough for them to do in Dale," Thranduil said. 

"Am I doing them a favour?" It was a honest question; like all children, his had played at being princesses and princes, but reality was a different matter altogether. "From what I've seen so far, I'm not sure they'll thank me for it."

Thranduil's hands flattened against the small of his back, his hold loosening. "Hardly anyone who becomes a ruler is ever grateful at the time," he said, and the tone of his voice made it plain that he didn't consider himself an exception. There had always been tales in Lake-town about the Elvenking, but Bard couldn't remember hearing one about how he had come to the throne. Now, however, wasn't the time to ask about it, if it ever came.

"Bain's helped all winter already and he's doing well," he said, allowing himself one last moment of closeness before he dropped his arms and moved back, bringing a half-step of distance between them. Thranduil let him go without comment. "And the girls… Tilda's still so little, but Sigrid's pretty much been running the household since my wife died." He felt the familiar pang of wistfulness at mentioning Kari, the reassurance that she hadn't slipped from his heart even after all these years. 

"You should think about how you will involve them," Thranduil said. "It may be best for them if you begin to teach them now."

Bard watched as the Elf went to pour them two cups of wine from the carafe set out on one of the low chairs along the carved wall. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Let Bain shadow you whenever possible so he can learn from your example. He should grow familiar with your duties, and in time you may want to put him in charge of smaller matters." Thranduil returned to his side, cups in hand, and Bard automatically accepted one of them and raised it to his lips to take a cautious sip when he noticed that the wine had been heated. With the added spices and honey, it was a considerably more pleasant taste compared to the usual stuff, not that he'd ever tell Thranduil that. 

"We've been doing that already, and I think he's also been getting lessons from Imrahil, though don't ask me on what." Bard had another mouthful of wine, then made himself lower the cup. By now he knew how to handle Elvish drinks, but at this time of the day it was better to err on the side of caution. 

Thranduil shot him a fleeting smile. "Imrahil knows what is expected of the children of a ruling lord."

"Just in case you'd forgotten, I'm not an Elf and neither are my children. I'm not sure the same rules apply."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "The differences in this case are not vast, I assume. But Imrahil is familiar with these matters as they pertain to Men, too."

"How so? I didn't get the impression that he likes us that much."

"He has shown an interest in the Princes of Dol Amroth far down in the south. I have never quite discovered the reason for it, but he has journeyed there often ever since the founding of their house." Thranduil paused, looking at the wine in his cup. "At times I wonder whether he had something to do with the hint of Elvish blood that flows in their veins, but I don't dare ask."

Bard's eyebrows rose. "Perhaps that's for the best," he said and tried to imagine Imrahil as a guardian spirit or, even worse, an ancestor. It was a terrifying idea. "Should I ask him about instructing Sigrid as well?"

"If you wish, I can give her a few suggestions for tasks that might suit her interests and talents." After a sip from his wine, Thranduil set down the cup and took Bard's as well when it was offered, their fingers brushing briefly. "I must return to my council, I fear." 

Bard waved his hand. "Don't let me keep you. Are they always that…" he trailed off, not quite sure what word to use, then eventually settled for, "sneaky?"

"They'd make for a poor council otherwise." Thranduil turned to leave, red and silver robe trailing behind him, then came to a halt again before ascending the steps. "You should accompany me. Dale will need a council sooner rather than later, and this way you can see how such an institution can be put to good use."

There were very few things Bard wanted less, but he couldn't deny that Thranduil had a point. "Won't they object if it's not about Dale?" he tried.

A wolfish grin settled on Thranduil's face for the blink of an eye before being replaced by his usual cool expression. "I'm their king. I'd like to see them try."

***

The handful of days in the Elvenking's halls passed swiftly, filled with activities as they were. Mornings were reserved for council sessions, some of them dealing with matters concerning only the Elves, while others touched upon the Woodland Realm's relations with Dale. No treaties were negotiated, and Bard wasn't asked any more questions by the councilors - something he suspected was due to Thranduil issuing orders to that effect. It was a relief since there wasn't much he could have debated with them anyway. Nonetheless he attended the sessions; he wasn’t blind to what they could teach him.

Much more productive were the afternoons he spent in Thranduil's study, where they went over the necessary next steps for Dale together. Food was the main issue; for the winter they could rely on the stores they’d received from the Elves, but by spring they needed to have concrete ideas about which crops to plant and where, and how to arrange the labour necessary so the thousand other matters that had to be dealt with wouldn’t be neglected either. The topics soon blurred in Bard's mind: tithe levels and trade agreements, payrolls and land division, buildings to repair and Dwarves to insult, though he was fairly certain that Thranduil hadn't been entirely serious about that last matter. On the other hand, he'd given Bard a list of names and suggestions.

Bard belonged to Sigrid and Tilda in the evenings, well aware that these few undisturbed hours might be more than he'd be able to give them once they were back in Dale. They’d both thrived over the winter, and it made his heart ache to see them so content here when their time in the Woodland Realm would soon come to an end. They both wanted to return to Dale with him, but Bard could see that they’d miss Thranduil’s halls. Tilda already looked devastated at the idea that she’d have to leave the marvellous stables behind, though her foal would be brought to Dale eventually. 

Sigrid had found so many things to hold her interest that Bard was surprised she slept at all. The weavers and the incredibly detailed fabrics they wrought, the minstrels and their tales … and the Elvenking’s library, of course. Bard had seen the vast rooms and still found it hard to believe that there were so many books in the world. Sigrid had been given free reign, and though only a fraction of the books were in a language she could read, she’d been soaking up knowledge all winter. 

The nights, once his daughters were safely in bed and hopefully asleep, were happily shared with Thranduil, whose persuasive skills when Bard was distracted otherwise weren't helping.

"I'm not sure why you want me to address your sodding council again when they’ve finally stopped giving me those odd looks," Bard complained a day before he and the girls were to return to Dale, tugging down his sleeves to make sure his tunic sat right. He'd firmly protested robes, but the rest of his outfit had been commandeered by Elves once more, which was ridiculous since the clothes he'd arrived in had been of Elvish make already. If this continued, he'd end up with as many spare clothes as Thranduil, and the Elf had a special room for them. 

"Because you want them to remember you favourably," Thranduil told him and reached out to straighten his collar, presumably to make him more presentable before they left the study and headed for the council chamber. 

Bard just raised an eyebrow at him. 

Thranduil’s hand brushed against his skin in what might have been admonishment or encouragement. Bard decided it was the latter. "And because it will be simpler if you tell them of your plans in person, that way they won't question them."

Bard's expression didn't waver.

"Besides, you enjoy irritating authority figures, so it should prove to be an entertaining afternoon for you," Thranduil finished, the hint of a smirk on his face. 

"I wonder what it says about you as a king that you want me to go and bother your high and mighty councilors."

Thranduil's look turned into one of pure innocence. "It will be good for them. Keeps them on their toes. It's been centuries since anyone dared to raise their voice at Tiriwen's questions."

Bard sighed at the mention of that particular name. "From what I've seen in the past days, anyone who tries needs to have a spine of steel to stand up to her once she makes up her mind. I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"At times she needs to be reminded that she is but one voice on my council. But she has the realm’s best interests in mind, even if she can be rather direct about it." Thranduil reached for his wood-carved crown, wreathed with hellebores and snowdrops, and settled it on his head with a practiced motion. Not for the first time Bard wondered whether he added the flowers personally or if someone was in charge of decorating the crown according to the seasons. And as before Bard resolved that he didn't really want to know, and that it was good he didn't have to bother with crowns as a lord. Small favours. It was bad enough that the Elvish tunics came with embroidery on the collar.

"If she's going to growl at me like she did at Yávien yesterday, I'm not sure what I'll do." He really wasn't. Threats from Alfrid had always thrown him firmly in the direction of sarcastic replies, but while Tiriwen was an advisor just like that bastard, she was a damn sight scarier. One week had been enough to make Bard firmly aware that this was someone he wasn't going to cross if he could avoid it. "Is she always like that?"

Head tilted, Thranduil briefly considered the question. "She's one of my longest-serving and most loyal councilors, and over the years she has mellowed considerably. In her early years, she was considerably more direct. Almost scandalously so, but in those times she was not yet convinced that the crown should be mine and not hers." 

Tiriwen with a crown on her head? Bard didn’t even want to think about that. "It's hard to imagine anyone's ever thought of her as scandalous," he said, grinning when he saw the hint of a smile on Thranduil's face. "Terrifying, yes. You should have sent her after Smaug, I'm sure she could just have looked at him, rapped him on the nose and told him to leave."

"Fortunately for us all, you have rendered that unnecessary."

Bard shrugged and watched Thranduil pluck at the folds of his elaborate court robes to settle them properly. Dark green this time, shot with strands of golden thread, and yet another set Bard had never seen before. "I wouldn't have minded. Slaying a dragon isn't an experience I'd care to repeat if it can be at all avoided."

"I doubt you'll need to exercise that particular talent again in your lifetime." Apparently satisfied with his clothes at last, Thranduil reached out to rest a hand at the small of Bard's back in a light touch to steer him towards the stairs leading from the study up to the council chamber. 

They drew a few curious looks from the Elves they passed along the way, though not as many as during the first days. Throughout Mirkwood there were settlements of Men, nominally under Thranduil's protection and power, but they had little to do with the Elves of the Woodland Realm beyond occasional trade and delivering their annual tithe. They certainly didn't come to the Elvenking's halls or left their children here for the winter, or spent their days at the king's side and their nights in his bed. 

Not for the first time Bard wondered just how much the Elves knew about what he and Thranduil did with their evenings, and then dismissed the thought has something he was happier not knowing. Elves were a damned gossipy bunch; Bard blamed their immortality for it, along with the fact that they seemed to exist in a perennial state of mild boredom. 

Thranduil herded him along the winding walkways and into the council chamber, where the others were already assembled. Somewhat to his surprise, Bard spotted Sigrid on one of the benches set along the wall behind the councilors' chairs for onlookers. She gave him a quick wave and a smile, then returned to observing the Elves.

"Do you have anything to do with her being here?" Bard asked, nodding his head in her direction.

"I may have suggested to her that today could be educational." His hand still at Bard's back, Thranduil surveyed the assembled councilors. "My Lords and Ladies." 

"My King," Tiriwen replied and waited for him to take his seat, then watched Bard do the same, this time on a chair in the circle rather than the side benches like he'd done for the past days. "I take it the Lord of Dale will speak to us today?"

"There are a few matters I would have the council hear," Thranduil said. "Lord Bard and I have discussed them over the past week and I deem them ready for your attention."

Bard didn't miss how the councilors exchanged swift glances, though there was no murmuring like he'd have expected. They remained silent, their eyes back on Thranduil after their brief surprise. 

"We will continue to assist Dale in their efforts to reclaim and defend their land until they can do so themselves," Thranduil went on, his words slow and measured. "As of now, this means supplies of food and other things necessary until they can establish their own fields and recover their trade links."

"For how long should we expect this to continue?" Yávien asked. 

Bard cleared his throat. "It takes a summer to grow a harvest, or so I've been told," he said and was rewarded with a minute smirk from Thranduil. "If there are ways to speed it up, I'm all ears."

"Galion has reported that our stores are sufficient to share," Thranduil picked up again before any of the councilors could voice an opinion. "To take into account the case that Dale cannot grow enough food in their first harvest, we will shift more of our crops towards grain and vegetables this year, mundane as those may be."

"Shift them from where?" Tiriwen asked. 

Thranduil met her eyes, and she calmly held his gaze. "I believe the flax cultivation can be reduced for a year," he said.

"The weavers won't be pleased."

Thranduil shrugged. "They'll have a year to think up new patterns. We'll be able to handle a year with a reduced linen yield."

Bard eyed Thranduil's fine robes and thought of the sheer quantity of different clothes he'd seen him in so far. Perhaps he needed to be more grateful for the offer of assistance if it meant that Thranduil had to wear the same tunic twice and suffer such hardships.

"Perhaps alternative solutions can be found before the planting season," Tiriwen said, but didn't sound as though it was a major concern. "Lord Imrahil will remain in Dale?"

"Along with his troops," Thranduil confirmed, his voice brooking no agreement even as he once again settled into a deceptively casual sprawl in his chair. "Dale is our ally. Until they can defend themselves, we shall do so."

Tiriwen leaned forward. "Why?" she asked. She sounded as if it truly puzzled her.

That was what it boiled down to, Bard knew, and it was a question he hadn't quite been able to answer himself. Basic decency might cover part of it, and loyalty to an ally in war, even though Dale's handful of fighters had hardly made a difference. And while Thranduil might invite Bard to his bed these days, he was far too shrewd to let it matter. 

Thranduil hesitated. Bard spotted it, which meant that each and every member of the council had to be acutely aware of it. The atmosphere in the chamber instantly turned tense with anticipation and concern. 

"Leave us." 

The handful of guards and attendants around them immediately obeyed their king's command, and Sigrid, too, made to go until Thranduil looked at her and motioned for her to sit down again.

"Stay. This will concern your generation more than your father's."

Sigrid sat. 

Once the doors had been drawn shut, Thranduil rose from his chair and strode to the middle of the circle, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture straight. "What you hear is for the council's ears alone," he commanded, turning to look at all of them in turn until they bowed their heads. 

Tiriwen was the last to do so. "Secrets are unlike you, my Lord."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed for a moment and they exchanged looks that were unreadable to Bard. "We need allies," he said, "now more than ever. The forest will secure our northern and western borders, but we're vulnerable to the east and especially the south."

"Vulnerable to what?" Yávien asked the question that had to be not just on Bard's mind. 

It didn't bode well at all that Thranduil once again hesitated. "The White Council has discovered what- _who_ lingered in Dol Guldur until they drove him out," he said eventually. "The shadow is rising in the south again."

Around the circle, the Elves froze in their seats. 

Through a gap between the high backs of the chairs, Bard caught Sigrid's eye and knew that they both were thinking of the same tales told by the bonfire on the shore during long summer nights. Tales of the war between good and evil and the battles fought to keep the darkness at bay. When Bain had discovered that Mordor was a real place, years ago, he'd slept in Bard's bed for a week, too scared to close his eyes in the black of the night. But the tales themselves had always felt just like that: tales that might have roots in history but had grown and changed over time and now were a distant past. 

"Are they certain?" Yávien asked into the complete and utter silence of the council chamber 

Thranduil faced her and nodded. "Mithrandir spoke of it, and Lord Celeborn has confirmed it."

Tiriwen's eyebrows rose. "You asked Celeborn?"

"I deemed it opportune."

She looked genuinely surprised for a moment before she reclaimed her pleasantly neutral expression, though there was a new hardness to her eyes. "Under these circumstances, my Lord, I understand the need for allies. Though I must question whether we shouldn't look further south than at the remnants of Esgaroth."

"Remnants?" Bard asked before he could think better of it. 

Tiriwen turned towards him, her head tilted to the side. "What else should we call a hundred scrawny fishwives?"

"How about you call them your allies?" he demanded. "So maybe there aren't as many of us as there are of you, and maybe we're not trained warriors. But if it comes to war, we stand to lose as much as you do. More, even, because Dale is all we've got left so you can be damn sure we'll put up a fight!"

"And you'll be overrun within a day if it comes to that."

"Then help us prevent that! We've fought together once. Was that just because we were convenient? Why have you been helping us over the winter if we aren't worth it? You might as well have left us to die of cold and hunger, then we wouldn't be causing you any more problems now!"

Tiriwen calmly regarded him. "The thought has occurred."

Yávien cleared her throat. "Not to all of us."

"Because you don't consider all angles," Tiriwen said, not bothering to turn towards her. "Dale may become an ally in a few decades. It may fade away again. Can we spare the effort? Do we want to invest resources in that possibility?"

Bard looked from one to the other and wondered whether interrupting could possibly get him into any more trouble. He decided that it was unlikely. "You do, because the fate of my people, my family, my own are all tied to yours now. "

For some reason that statement made some of the Elves perk up with sudden interest. 

"My Lord Thranduil," one of the councilors eventually asked, "how should we interpret this?"

Thranduil surveyed them, radiating his customary haughty amusement. "You all are aware that I hold Lord Bard in the highest regard. I have offered him an alliance when we faced the Dwarves and Dale has stood with us throughout. At the very least we gain a counterbalance to the Dwarves in Erebor, and at best an ally who will eventually close the gap between the Woodland Realm and the lands of Lord Calemir in Dorwinion. Unless the council objects, I intend to continue this union."

In a way that seemed to settle matters. The Elves around Yávien, whom Bard had considered to be on his side, looked at ease after that pronouncement, while Tiriwen and her supporters were briefly whispering among themselves before she returned her attention to her king. 

"How far will this union go?" she asked. "Are there any other measures planned beyond military support and supplies?"

Thranduil returned to his chair and settled down, shrugging off his outer robes to let them drape over the armrests in a cascade of shimmering fabric. "Those will be the main pillars for now. We'll maintain our trade relations with Dale as an intermediary instead of Lake-town, since the transport contracts have never been with the settlement but rather with individuals, as in the case of Lord Bard."

Bard nodded in agreement. "Though I'm going to have to relinquish mine, but I'm sure a replacement's going to be easy to find who's still got the time. And a boat, perhaps." He wondered what had happened to his barge; the last time he'd seen her, she'd been tied up by the main canal around the corner from his house. Most likely the barge had burned with the rest of the town, or been torn loose and was now a few hundred miles downriver. 

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "The land route will suffice for now. The Forest River won't be navigable until early summer at any rate. There has been much snow this winter."

"What of the new settlement at the lake?" Yávien asked. "They've made overtures about contracts."

Bard felt like banging his head against the nearest wall for not thinking about this. Of course Alfrid would try the same with the Elves as he had with the Dwarves, and had probably done so before he'd even bothered to send messages to the Lonely Mountain. The Woodland Realm had been Lake-town's most important trading partner; naturally they'd try to reclaim that link when it had washed such a steady supply of gold into the Master's coffers. 

"Feren has sent a few scouts past the settlement," one of the councilors said. "According to his report there were fewer than a hundred Men to be seen. Not the kind of numbers they'd need to form a sustainable trading post and have enough to spare to crew ships themselves at the same time."

Thranduil hummed thoughtfully, then looked at Bard. "Would you agree with that?"

"What, that they can't cover the transports?" For a moment he considered fudging the truth in Dale's favour. It wouldn't take much, not if he compared it all to Lake-town before the dragon had come. But it would mean lying to the Elves, and while Bard knew that he could be convincing when he had to, he'd never liked it much. Skipping parts of the story was all fine and good, and creative interpretation of the truth had been part of the game when he'd dealt with the Master and Alfrid, just like for most of Lake-town. But the Elves hadn't given him reason for deception. "It's going to depend on how they're organising the shipping. Lake-town needed more people in the harbour than on the actual barges because a lot of stuff got loaded on and off. If they're still doing that, a hundred pairs of hands aren't going to cut it."

"Would they need to?" Thranduil asked. 

Bard shrugged. "I didn't always pass by the harbour when I carried shipments that weren’t for the Woodland Realm. Those weren't always entirely authorised trips." When he saw the puzzled expressions of some of the Elves, he gave them a lopsided grin. "Smuggling works a lot better when you don't take the contraband freight into the port when it's avoidable."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sigrid look less than happy at that and shot her an apologetic smile. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to mention this, but given how distant the Elves sometimes appeared from the more earthy sides of existence, it might not do too much damage. With some luck they'd consider smuggling romantic or something along those lines.

"So if we assume that all transports run along official lines, it's unlikely that they can be reliable." Thranduil waved dismissively. "We'll go with Dale, it seems the wiser choice even if it weren't a matter of honouring contracts already in place. Lord Bard has mentioned that they're already negotiating with Erebor as well, so I expect Dale to emerge once again as the trade hub it has been before."

"I hope your confidence won't be disappointed, my Lord," Tiriwen said. 

Thranduil met her eyes. "Does my council object on this matter, or any others we have discussed today?"

Tiriwen looked around the circle, then shook her head. "We do not. Though I ask that proper contracts be drawn up and the details be negotiated."

Negotiations. Bard's newest least favourite word, and from what he'd gleaned so far, Thranduil's as well. Nonetheless the Elvenking graced his council with a nod at the request. "It will be done, if Dale will stand with us."

Expectant faces turned towards him, and Bard nodded firmly. "We’ll ally ourselves with the Woodland Realm."

At that point the attendants were recalled to the council chamber again and the discussion shifted to more harmless matters like guard schedules and road maintenance. In the beginning Bard listened, not so much because it concerned him but because it was reassuring to know that even a realm as thoroughly and smoothly organised as that of the Elves still required time for such minutiae. It made Dale look marginally less chaotic in comparison, though it was also worrying since Bard had hoped he'd eventually be able to cut back on the attention he had to give to these matters. If even Thranduil hadn't figured out yet how to avoid discussing snow shoveling schedules after thousands of years, Bard probably wasn't going to work out a solution in his lifetime.

When the discussion shifted into Elvish and therefore mostly incomprehensible territory, Thranduil mercifully provided him with an opening to leave, and Bard pounced at the opportunity for escape. 

"You really shouldn't have mentioned the smuggling," Sigrid chided once they stepped outside the council chamber. 

Sighing, Bard grimaced at the reprimand. "Was it that bad?"

Her dismayed expression spoke volumes. 

"It's hardly a secret. Half the people in Dale were involved in that kind of stuff in some fashion, either because they did it or because they looked the other way. I'm not going to deny that we all did what we had to in order to scrape together enough of a living." He wasn't proud of having done it, though he did take pride in some of the ways in which he'd managed it. Outsailing the Master's patrol in the ruins was a story that had earned him plenty of free ales in the tavern, too. 

"You don't have to hide it." Sigrid leaned against him a little, and he slung a companionable arm around her shoulders as they made their way back to their quarters. Even after a week it was still reassuring to have his daughter back within reach, and Bard intended to make the most of it. Tilda had already reached the point where she darted away as soon as he looked like he'd attempt a hug, and was complaining that she was too old for it. At least Sigrid was humoring him. 

"As I said, I'm not going to. I expect the Elves knew of it too, or they're a lot less observant than I think."

Sigrid made an uninterpretable noise, then glanced up at his face. "They're good at catching details," she said. "That's why you shouldn't have drawn attention to it. Tiriwen didn't like you much before, and I don't think it's improved her opinion of you."

"Seems like I've got a talent when it comes to irritating Elves. Imrahil doesn't like me much either."

That earned him a huff of indignation. "It's good that you and Thranduil get along when you're annoying all the other important Elves."

He shot her a swift grin. "Surely it's not that bad. Imrahil's a prince, but other than that…"

"Tiriwen's probably worse," Sigrid grumbled. "She was the Queen of the Elves once."

Bard blinked. "Truly?"

He felt Sigrid shrug against him. "For a day, after King Oropher died. She was married to one of Thranduil's older brothers, but they were killed in battle too, so she went back to being just a member of the court. They're calling her Tiriwen Uncrowned, but not where she can hear."

That certainly explained some matters about her. "How do you know all that?" 

Again Sigrid shrugged. "I pay attention," she said. "There have been a lot of council sessions about us over the winter, and I wanted to know what was going on and who's on our side. Thranduil hasn't let me sit in on the discussions until today, but he usually gave me a summary afterwards, or had Galion do it." 

"Sigrid…" Bard drew her closer against his side and pressed a kiss against the crown of her head. "You didn't have to do that. You were supposed to come here so you'd have an easier winter, not so you'd find something new to worry about."

"I wanted to. It's interesting to see how the Elves handle those things and how they make decisions. I thought that as a king, Thranduil can just do whatever he wants, but he listens to his advisors quite a lot and asks for their opinions before he gives orders." 

She paused and they walked in silence for a few moments, up a few steps and along a slowly meandering section of the walkway that hung freely suspended across one of the many brooks inside the halls. After a week Bard barely noticed the omnipresent sound of water anymore; in a way it was soothing and a reminder of Lake-town, though the waves washing against the buildings' foundations had held a different rush to them. 

"The Master never listened to anyone, did he?" she eventually went on. "Except for Alfrid, and Alfrid only told him what he wanted to hear anyway, because he was the only one who never asked why."

Bard huffed at the reminder of all those questions that had never earned him answers, only punishment and harassment instead. "He wasn't a particularly good ruler, that way he didn't have to pay attention to what anyone needed."

"You're going to be better than that, Da, " Sigrid said, her voice so full of conviction that Bard couldn't help smiling. 

"I'll do my best. I promise."

She hummed in agreement. "So you'll listen if there's something you'd better think about?"

He should have known that his daughter wouldn't occupy herself with idle talk, not when she'd always been full of purpose and had only honed that talent over the past months. "What should I be listening to?"

They came past a wider platform where a few Elves were seated on carved benches; they briefly waved at Sigrid before bowing their heads together again to continue their talk. Bard could only marvel at how well she seemed to have settled in.

"The Elves have sheltered most of the children from Dale for the winter," she said as they walked on.

He nodded. It was hard to forget when his own daughters had been part of it, and when the whole thing had been Sigrid's idea in the first place and negotiated by her with the Elves. 

"I've spoken to many of them, and to the Elves who've taken them in. Some of them have grown really close, especially the children who lost their families. They don't have anyone to return to in Dale."

Bard considered this. "Do they want to stay?" he asked. It would hardly be surprising, not when the Elves had provided those children with the first peaceful home after all that destruction and chaos. He wasn't going to begrudge anyone a wish to keep away from Dale when the memories connected to it were of war and death and nothing else. The only question was how to explain that to Thranduil.

But Sigrid shook her head. "No, their foster parents want to accompany them and raise them in Dale."

That was going to take a different kind of explanation. "How many are we talking about?" 

Sigrid thought about it briefly. "Forty or fifty Elves."

Bard sighed. "We might as well declare Dale an Elvish settlement in that case and ask Thranduil whether he wants to annex us. Together with Imrahil's soldiers they're going to outnumber the people from Lake-town."

"Only while the troops are still there, and they won't stay forever," Sigrid pointed out very reasonably. "And surely there'll be other people who want to come live in Dale once they hear that life isn't so bad there."

Coming to a halt, Bard turned to look at her. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

She met his eyes, her chin held high, and nodded. 

Sigrid had been the one to bring their people here. She'd been the one who'd kept an eye on them during the winter and who'd listened closely enough to know of this now. It was far more responsibility than he'd ever wanted to burden her with, but she had given him little choice in the matter, just like she never seemed to do. And as always she'd shouldered it and handled it much better than he could have hoped. 

"We'll talk to Thranduil, you and I," he told her. "It's too early in the year for them to return with us, so there's time to do this properly. But if you think it should be done, we will."

***

They spoke to Thranduil that evening and drafted a preliminary plan over dinner, or rather, Thranduil and Sigrid drafted it. Bard listened with half an ear, the rest of his attention on Tilda and her heartache over having to leave her horse behind for now, because the foal was too young to be parted from its mother. The promise that they'd bring it to Dale in the autumn was barely enough to console her, and for a little while she was adamant that she'd simply stay here until then.

"She's grown up on the water," he said a few hours later when it was just him and Thranduil in the private study, sharing a last cup of wine. "I have no idea how she's managed to become that obsessed with horses. Fish, ducks, dragonflies, that I'd understand, but the only horse she's ever seen in her life was the mean old knack they kept on the shore to plow the fields."

Thranduil treated him to an amused smile. "She simply takes after her father in doing the unexpected and then stubbornly pursuing the idea."

Bard's eyebrows rose. "Stubborn?"

"I may have heard someone call you obstinate like a donkey just today," Thranduil drawled. "Though I am sure it was intended with the best possible meaning."

"Of course." Shaking his head, Bard pretended to glower. "Elves."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because otherwise it would have had to be one of my daughters. They're just as persistent as I am, so they know and appreciate it." Most of the time at least, except for those moments when they tried to get their ways and their father irritatingly refused to agree. 

Thranduil's smile sharpened as he settled more comfortably in his chair, his knee brushing against Bard’s in what probably wasn’t entirely coincidental. “It has certainly served you well in the past.”

Bard’s eyebrows rose at that. “It’s also gotten me into plenty of trouble,” he said, leaning forward so he could increase the contact. Then his eyebrows rose further when Thranduil began to run his soft-booted foot up and down along his calf while looking unperturbed. 

“A troublemaker? I see I should have made inquiries before entering into contracts with you.” 

At that purred drawl Bard shifted in his seat, somewhere between amused and embarrassed at his reaction, and made a point to slowly and deliberately let his gaze wander. “And yet I was kept on.”

Thranduil hummed deep in his throat, then rose in one smooth move to step over to the side table and set aside his wine cup. “Someone must have appreciated you.” 

"Is that so?" Bard asked, following his example, though with less elegance and an audible clink when he set the cup down with the other one. "And who would that be?"

"Not my councilors, they find your impertinence far too disrespectful." Thranduil stepped closer, thoroughly into Bard's personal space and forced him to look up to meet his eyes. 

Bard shot him a lopsided grin and made it as disrespectful as he could. After years of practice, it wasn't too hard. "I apologise, of course."

"As though you regret it," Thranduil murmured and leaned closer, his mouth barely brushing the shell of Bard's ear. "As though I'd have you regret it."

"You're giving me reason not to," Bard replied in the same hushed tone of voice, focused on holding still despite the Elf's warmth against him, separated by a mere finger's width. 

He heard Thranduil's quiet chuckle, felt the swift exhalation of breath against the side of his neck. "Is that so?"

"Would the Elvenking have me… impertinent?" Bard asked and leaned in just for a moment, barely long enough to nip at Thranduil's jaw and draw a swift gasp from him before withdrawing again. "Or perhaps irreverent?" He punctuated it with another bite, this time to that enticingly bared neck where he could feel the faint patter of Thranduil's pulse against his lips. "Insolent?"

His chin was caught in a firm grip before he could find another spot to tease, so he flicked his tongue against Thranduil's fingers resting at the corner of his mouth instead, smirking when that drew the hint of a pleased sigh. 

"I could have you thrown into my dungeons, " Thranduil whispered in his ear, close enough that Bard could feel the soft rush of breath against his skin. "Keep you there until you learn the meaning of respect."

Bard simply smirked back and saw the grey eyes darken in response with what was becoming a rather familiar trace of arousal. "Go ahead then, my Lord Thranduil… I’ll just wait for a message to reach Master Bilbo, I'm sure he'll have me sprung from prison in a day or two."

Thranduil blinked and they looked at each other.

Then they both burst out laughing, though Thranduil managed it in a considerably more dignified fashion than Bard.

"Sorry," Bard gasped, still grinning widely, "that really wasn't where I meant to go with this."

Thranduil was making visible efforts at straightening his face and only partially succeeded; the smile seemed firmly in place for now. "Halflings are not necessarily conductive to these matters."

"I'd rather not think of them in this context," Bard agreed. "Poor Bilbo. Not that I'd want him here, mind. You and I are quite enough."

"Is that so?"

Bard winked at him, then stepped in to slide his arms around Thranduil's waist under the heavy outer robes he was still wearing and draw him close to bring them together. "How about we take this elsewhere and I show you?"

In response Thranduil bowed his head to kiss him, almost chaste at first but soon with growing interest. "A splendid idea," he murmured and turned the two of them towards his bedroom. 

Bard allowed himself to be herded along - he _could_ be acquiescent with the right incentive, after all - but eventually Thranduil's measured stride was far too slow for his taste. So as soon as they had one of those rare doors between them and potential prying eyes, Bard reached for Thranduil's wrist to draw him close, then crowded him back against that same door. It earned him a flash of genuine surprise, chased by narrowed grey eyes and a smirk that was all but harmless. 

"The dungeons might have merit after all," Thranduil mused. "Raising a hand against the king..."

Bard just shot him a wry grin and leaned closer until he could feel the little silver clasps of Thranduil's tunic press against his chest. "I've done worse and gotten away with it." 

"Is that so? And what might that have been?" 

"Perhaps I'd better demonstrate." He rose up but held back at the last moment, their faces so close together that he could feel Thranduil's breaths against his lips, warm and coming ever so slightly faster. They looked at each other, and once again he was struck by the sheer agelessness in those grey eyes. He closed the remaining distance between them before he could think too hard about it and instead focused on kissing Thranduil, their mouths sliding together with what was almost turning into familiarity. 

"A promising beginning," Thranduil murmured, sighing happily when Bard's hands found their way into his hair, fingers stroking lightly along the tips of his ears. It was curious to see the effect of such a little gesture, so Bard tried for more and was rewarded with an almost-purr when he carefully nipped at one earlobe and slowly moved higher. Absently he wondered whether all Elves were that sensitive, or if it was just one of Thranduil's quirks, then abandoned that thought when Thranduil reached to cup his chin and draw him into a kiss once more. Just the right blend of gentle and demanding, of lips and teeth and tongue, and Bard readily went along when Thranduil began to back him towards the bed they'd been sharing for the past week. 

"Clothes first," Bard suggested, trying to figure out where to start. Even with practice, Elvish garments were far too complicated when his attention was focused on matters far more interesting than buttons and laces. "One day I'll convince you that a simple tunic is more than enough."

Thranduil just raised an eyebrow at that plainly scandalous suggestion, but magnanimously helped with the fiendishly intricate knots that held his robes in place. After that was dealt with, they made short work of Bard's much less sophisticated clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Bard almost bent to at least toss them over a chair, then got sidetracked entirely by Thranduil's smooth hands settling against his chest and trailing lower just to wrap around his hardening cock for the barest of moments before falling away again.

"If this is the Elvenking's idea of punishment for irreverence, I'm going to have to try for that more often.” He leaned closer, arms raised to wind around Thranduil's shoulders to bring them together from chest to groin. There wasn't all that much finesse behind the move, but he figured that it got the point across.

With a quiet laugh at that, Thranduil gave him a shove that sent him tumbling into the sheets. "Too stubborn for your own good," he drawled and followed him down with considerably more elegance.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Bard relished the seductive warmth radiating from Thranduil's bare skin against his own. There had been times in his life when he'd felt sure he'd never be warm again, usually at the height of winter when the sun's rays were barely strong enough to reach the ground. To lie here naked in a well-heated room was marvellous enough even if he didn't count Thranduil, who seemed intent on getting them thoroughly entangled. "I haven't heard you complain yet."

He felt Thranduil's palm against his cheek, rasping across the stubble in a slow caress. "Perhaps I believe you'll see reason," a kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, "and learn respect."

Drawing up his knees for leverage, Bard had them rolled in a heartbeat to reverse their positions, Thranduil now sprawled beneath him and looking not at all displeased about it. "Irreverent, remember?" He leaned down to nip at the tip of one pointed ear, drawing a contented gasp. "Besides, don't tell me you don't appreciate a bit of stubbornness. You'd be terribly bored otherwise."

"There are other matters I might appreciate right now," Thranduil told him, a hint of impatience colouring his voice that made Bard hold himself completely still for a moment out of a sheer need not to comply. Other needs soon won out, however, like to taste Thranduil's lips and feel the rise and fall of his chest quicken as they shifted closer together; to settle a thigh between Thranduil's and hear him sigh with pleasure. 

Leaning across Thranduil, Bard barely managed to snatch the little flask of oil - whose origins he refused to think more closely about, bad enough that the guards were bound to get an earful again tonight - before he was dragged back again into a tight embrace. He let himself be caught and sank down into Thranduil's arms, irreverent thoughts gone from his mind for now. 

A long while later, Bard tiredly picked up the oil flask again to put it down on the floor and keep from spilling whatever might be left. 

“Should I send for more?” Thranduil asked at the quiet clink of glass against stone.

Bard just snorted at the idea. “That’s a bit optimistic tonight,” he murmured and curled himself against Thranduil's back with a contented sigh, one arm slung across his chest to draw him in close. He could get used to this, he thought and tried not to dwell on the awareness that tomorrow he’d return to Dale.

Thranduil covered Bard’s hand with his own, their fingers interlaced. “Such a pity,” he drawled and gasped when Bard bit his shoulder in reprimand. Then he drew another sharp breath when Bard dragged their joined hands down along his side, not quite awake enough anymore to really draw it out. 

“You’re far too used to getting your way,” Bard said, feathering kisses against the side of his neck as he let his hand wander along the line of Thranduil’s hip to wrap around his cock, not sparing much thought to finesse. “What was it you said about stubbornness…”

***

The hall that held Thranduil's throne was vast, one of the largest within the caves. Pillars in shapes reminiscent of trees stretched as high as twenty men, the delicately carved latticework at the top barely visible anymore from the ground. Above them the ceiling arched even higher in places, vanishing into darkness where the lamps or the rays of daylight couldn't illuminate the shadows.

For the dragon, the arcs were barely wide enough to let him pass. 

Frozen in place, Bard had to watch as the beast curled his giant body around the platform that held the finely carved throne, the tail half draped across the main walkway. The sharp smell of fire stung his nose and he thought he could feel the heat on the bare skin of his face when Smaug stared at him, the huge maw stretching into a terrifying imitation of a grin. 

"Dragonslayer," he heard the mocking growl and felt it reverberate down to his bones. "Did you think I wouldn't find you here? Did you think I can't touch the Elves, with their puny weapons and airs of grandeur?" 

Slowly Smaug uncurled and rose to his feet, one bridge crumbling under his talons in a crash of stone and wood. With a creak like a ship's sail in a sudden breeze the leathery wings spread out to their full span, and Bard was thrown back to another night when he'd felt the unbearable heat around himself while he'd watched that silhouette come at him, breathing fire and rage. 

His hand itched for a bow, a sword, anything to defend himself, but he couldn't move a muscle. All he could do was watch as Smaug twisted past the columns, coming ever closer. 

"They've hidden from me, cowering in their hovels in the hope that I won't come for them. They must feel safe from me here, burrowed underground like worms." The huge head swung around and came to a halt right before Bard, so close that he could see the scales that protected the thick hide. They glinted in the faint light, red and golden and brown. On another animal, Bard might have called them beautiful.

"You're not here," he hissed from between clenched teeth, his hands unable to curl into fists. 

Smaug laughed, a thundering rumble that echoed in the empty air of the hall. "You've brought me here, Dragonslayer," he snarled. "Where you go, I go. The Elves' halls are no safer than your meagre town, and their lordling has already tasted my kin's fire in the past and fled in pain and fear. He won't thank you for inviting me in."

Bard tried not to listen. He closed his eyes and wished himself far away, onto the lake, into the mountains, anywhere without other living beings around himself. He wished for the hard grip of a bow in his hand, and for a moment thought he did. 

When he opened his eyes again he saw Thranduil on his throne in a robe of silk even paler than his hair and skin. Something dark covered his cheek, and at first Bard thought it was merely part of his crown until he looked closer and recognised the deep burns that reached down to the bone and followed the slender column of his neck to vanish under his splendid clothes, only to appear again on a hand charred to almost nothing. 

"He knows what it's like to have dragonfire devour his flesh," Smaug growled. "He's felt it before, he'll feel it again." 

"Not while I'm here!"

"Ah, but that's precisely why I'm here too." With a sharp snap of his wings, Smaug turned away from him and towards Thranduil on his throne, and Bard felt the ground tremble beneath him with each step of the dragon. 

With a lash of his tail, Smaug shattered the bridge Bard was standing on, and everything turned dark.

***

Bard startled awake with a half-swallowed cry and struggled upright against the blankets that were trapping him tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. In the darkness he couldn't see where he was, and he had to fight vertigo for a moment when the blackness seemed to spin around him and he couldn't find anything to focus on.

A sudden firm grip on his wrist made him tear himself away and he lost his balance, his hands flying out to find something, anything to steady himself against. He struck something soft, fabric that tapered off into individual threads, and his confused mind latched onto the knowledge that this was one of those froofy Elvish cushions, that he had to be in Thranduil's bed because nobody else would even consider using those, and that the hand that had attempted to touch him had to belong to the Elf. 

Who was also saying his name, voice pitched low and even as if he were trying to calm a spooked horse. 

He drew a shaky breath, then another, his his heart racing in his chest. "Sorry," he managed, raising one unsteady hand up to brush his hair out of his face, the other still clutching the pillow tassle. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the near complete darkness that was only broken by the faint light of a single small lamp in the corner, the wick turned so low that only a tiny flame was still burning. 

The rustling of blankets and the shift of the mattress warned him that Thranduil was sitting up too, though he didn't attempt another touch. 

"Just a nightmare," Bard said and forced his breathing to slow, though the effort made him tremble. "I know it wasn't real." He hoped it wasn't real, though he didn't say that out loud. 

He caught a considering hum from Thranduil, then felt him move closer, his knee brushing against Bard's thigh as he shifted position. "I don't believe I've seen you dream before."

Bard shrugged, pushing into that small point of contact just a little. "When you sleep in the same room as your small children, you don't want to wake up screaming." Another hum, perhaps while Thranduil pictured life in such close quarters, so he went on, "Just give me a moment. I know there is no dragon in your halls."

"I should hope not," Thranduil huffed. "I have far more sense than Thrór ever did to risk attracting that kind of attention." 

"Good to know." His breathing was almost back to normal and he could feel his wildly beating heart begin to calm as well. Carefully he reached out, his hand finding Thranduil's left cheek with only a little bit of clumsiness. The skin there was smooth under his fingertips, unblemished and unscarred despite what he'd seen. "I dreamt you were burnt by dragonfire," he said, stroking up along the line of Thranduil's temple and slowly back to his ear, lingering at the delicate tip in both a caress and a distraction.

For a few heartbeats Thranduil said nothing, just held still under the touches. Eventually Bard felt him move once again, an arm coming around his waist, and he was gently pushed down into the cushions again. He let himself be manhandled, not bothering with even token resistance. It felt far too reassuring to his still somewhat shaken nerves to have Thranduil solid and warm against his back, the blankets drawn up around them in a sheltering layer against the rest of the world. 

"Do Elves dream?" he asked and settled into the embrace, his head on the cushions and Thranduil's arm a comfortable weight across his chest. 

"At times, though not as often as Men seem to do. Perhaps because we sleep less, especially when our minds are troubled." Thranduil slowly ran his hand down across Bard's sternum, skirting the lower edge of his ribs before tracing an arch to his hip, then back up again, quietly soothing. 

"But you sleep." 

"Because it's pleasant, not because it's necessary." 

"Of course you must like it or you wouldn't bother with such a big bed." Bard paused, his fingers toying with the tassel of one of the cushions. "Or drag one all the way to Dale just for a few days of posturing, silk sheets and poncy pillows and all." 

He felt the quiet chuckle more than he heard it. "As I said, it can be pleasant," Thranduil murmured,his hand flattening against Bard’s chest, solid and reassuring. 

"In more ways than one," Bard agreed quietly and caught Thranduil's hand, drawing it to his mouth to slide his lips over the smooth skin before cradling it against his chest. Missing the presence of another person in his bed hadn't vanished over the years, though the pain of his Kari’s loss had dulled with time to a faint ache he was only aware in the quiet of the night. He hadn't always slept alone in the past years, but those few times had been about physical desires, not the far more complex pleasure of simple company that was so much harder to find. To have both… Shifting closer to Thranduil, he focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest and on the arm around him, and slowly felt his heart ease. 

For a little while they didn't speak while Bard tried to make himself go back to sleep, but his mind was still too awake to let him drift off. He was warmer and more comfortable than he'd been for most of the winter, Thranduil's breaths a quiet rush against his bare shoulder. Enough to let him rest, or so it should have been - but sleep escaped him, no matter how still he tried to keep. 

"You asked me once whether I would bring down the walls of Erebor with a song," Thranduil eventually said in the darkness, his voice pitched low. His arm tightened around Bard, bringing them closer together.

Bard hummed in agreement. "You do realise that was months ago."

"Some matters require patience. Do you know the tale of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel?"

"I don't think so. One of them sang down a wall, I take it?" Bard paused, then had to grin. "Oh, isn't it the tale with the talking dog? I've got to admit I didn't pay much attention beyond that bit, but the dog was great."

He felt Thranduil's chest rise and fall in a sigh so clearly that it had to be exaggerated. "At times I wonder how you can be unaware of tales every Elfling knows."

"Because I've never been an Elfling, that's why." Reaching up to adjust the cushions, Bard settled under the blankets with a quiet huff. "But what I am is the leader of a city full of Elves and now apparently children who're being raised by Elves, so it might be for the best if I know those stories, just in case."

Thranduil shifted in response, rolling close again and entangling his legs with Bard's, hand splayed across his stomach. "I may have to supply you with books."

"Give them to Sigrid," Bard said and laid his hand on top of Thranduil’s, curling their fingers together, "and tell me your tale, I like listening to you. What's it about, aside from the talking dog and walls being destroyed by songs?"

"Men," Thranduil muttered with the same mock derision Bard always used. "It's about so much more than just that."

"Then I'll just have to listen."

"Just so." Thranduil paused briefly, and when he spoke again his voice rose and fell with the pattern of his words. "A king there was in days of old, ere Men yet walked upon the mould. His power was reared in caverns' shade; his hand was over glen and glade…"

It turned out that it was indeed about more than just a talking dog. As Thranduil told the unfolding tale of Beren and Lúthien, occasionally pausing as he sought for the words to translate it from Sindarin, Bard let himself be drawn into the story until he eventually drifted off to sleep.

***

The next morning they returned to Dale with most of those who'd come to winter with the Elves because of their injuries or illnesses. For now the younger children would stay in the Woodland Realm until the details about their foster parents' relocation were settled. At the same time there was no reason to keep the remaining people from going back to what wasn't their home yet, but what would hopefully become one in time.

They formed a fairly large group of travelers: Bard's people on horseback and on carts otherwise laden with food and other supplies, accompanied by sixty guards and, somewhat surprisingly, one Elvenking. 

"My troops in Dale need to know that I haven't abandoned them to exile," Thranduil explained as he and Bard rode side by side just behind a handful of guards at the head of their caravan. "Imrahil has expressed some concern in that regard in his last messages."

Bard snorted loudly enough that his horse tossed its head in response to the sudden noise. "Imrahil needs to get over the idea that Dale is a barbaric wasteland. I know we can't compare to the luxuries in your realm, but it's really not as bad as he pretends it to be. How does he cope with travelling so far south to Gondor, does he take attendants along to set up a tent like yours every evening?"

Thranduil shot him a disdainful look that Bard by now knew to read as mild amusement rather than displeasure, though why the Elf would bother with even such a small deception was beyond him. 

"I like your tent," Bard went on, "it probably was the most comfortable place in all of Dale in those first few days. Certainly the warmest and least wet. But it's not the most practical thing to lug around, you've got to admit that."

"Which is why none of my people burden themselves with such matters when they travel, not even my children."

"And yet you do.”

Thranduil's expression turned blank, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The king needs to host the war council and important allies on a regular basis, it wouldn't do to welcome them in the rain and snow. I do presume you won’t deny me the pleasure of your hospitality once again?"

"Not unless the city has burned down since I left, and I'm fairly sure someone would have mentioned that in time over the past week." Right now it still took almost a day to cover the distance between Dale and Thranduil's halls, but the Elvish scouts Bard had spoken to estimated that once the paths dried out, the travel time would be cut in half on a sure-footed horse. 

Time passed slowly for the stretch of the journey that led them through the forest along narrow paths that made for slow riding. Bard spent most of the time speaking to those who'd return to Dale, trying to figure out where they'd slip back into their tightly knit community. It would be good to regain almost thirty pairs of hands to help with all the tasks that still needed doing; even more than that, it would be another step towards normalcy, or whatever passed for normalcy in Dale these days. 

At noon they reached the edge of the forest and came out onto the open plain that stretched for twenty miles to the flanks of the Lonely Mountain rising in the distance. From here on the journey got easier even for the less experienced travelers and they made good progress, enough that they could afford to dismount and take a break in the early afternoon without fear of losing the daylight before they reached Dale. 

The attack came out of nowhere. 

Riders burst forth from behind a rocky outcrop where they'd hidden. They didn't make for the main group - they were only a dozen, too few to face almost forty people - but for one of the supply carts that had stopped at a little distance from the rest, a wheel stuck in a mudhole. 

Bard didn't even have time to find his horse again - let alone get back into the saddle - before the first Elves gave chase. While he readied an arrow, aimed and released, he heard Thranduil shout orders in Sindarin, saw the Elves around them drag everybody who wasn't armed back to the carts where they could be protected more easily. Most of the people of Dale were up there with the grain sacks within moments, eyes wide as they huddled down together. 

Frantically he looked for his children, finally spotting Sigrid with a pair of Elves with their swords drawn. One of them shoved a shorter blade into her hands, and Bard saw the cold determination on her face as she gripped the weapon, ready to defend herself if it came to that. 

Tilda was nowhere to be seen. 

For a moment Bard thought he'd spotted her on one of the carts, then realised that it wasn't her. A cold shudder raced down his spine as he turned, searching for her in the chaos. "Tilda!"

Thranduil glanced in his direction, then shouted something at his troops again and sent half of them towards the attackers, their weapons ready. The cart that had been targeted was the one that carried supplies of Elf-crafted arrows, as well as lembas, and the raiders were grabbing as many bags and quivers now as they could. One was busy unhitching the two draft horses while the others circled, eyes on the approaching guards; the Elf who'd been driving the cart lay on the ground, unmoving. 

"Tilda!" Bard yelled again but didn't get an answer. He froze when he suddenly spotted the horse she'd been riding among the attackers, the saddle empty as the animal fidgeted nervously where it had been tied to the cart's back. "Tilda!"

Sigrid was desperately screaming her sister's name, too, but the two Elves who were guarding her kept her from doing more than that despite her clear efforts to get away from them. Bard spared them an absent thought of thanks and ran towards the attackers together with the Elves, bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. It was almost impossible to focus, his eyes frantically searching for a sign of Tilda, but he ruthlessly quenched the panic rising in his throat and concentrated on staying calm enough to be of use.

The bandits were still grabbing what they could from the cart; the horses were loose as well now and one of the riders made off with them, followed by a few others with bags slung across their saddles. One lay on the ground, writhing and screaming with pain, his clothes soaked red. 

Bard slowed, took aim and caught one of the bandits in the shoulder, sending him toppling off his horse. Ahead of him the first Elves reached the cart and the remaining raiders scattered before their drawn swords, clearly not about to risk a direct confrontation. 

He heard the rumble of hooves somewhere behind him and a heartbeat later was overtaken by several Elves on horseback; after a moment he caught a glimpse of Thranduil in their midst as they chased after the fleeing bandits. 

"Tilda!" he shouted again, running as fast as he could on the uneven ground. 

"Da!"

It took him endless moments to spot her, and his heart skipped a beat when he finally did. One of the bandits had dragged her onto his horse, and as much as she struggled, she couldn't free herself. 

Bard forced a deep breath past clenched teeth and aimed, but the moment he released the arrow the bandit wheeled his horse around and the shot missed him by a finger-width. 

"Da!" Tilda screamed, kicking and biting her captor; Bard heard him swear in response and spur his horse into a gallop just before the Elves could reach him. The bandits chased their horses across the brook and scattered, clearly hoping to get away individually, and with them on horses Bard had no way to keep up. It didn't stop him from trying and he pushed himself as hard as he could, his eyes on the rider ahead of him. 

Horses suddenly surrounded him and he almost stumbled into one when Thranduil reined in sharply right in front of him, sword in hand and expression grim. 

"That one's got Tilda," he panted. 

Eyes widening, Thranduil snapped a command in Sindarin and the Elves immediately took off in pursuit across the brook, too fast for Bard to do more than stare after them, his fist curled tightly around the leather-wrapped grip of his bow. Belatedly he spun on his heel to look for a horse, but none were anywhere near.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and it was instinct more than rational thought that made him raise his bow again, nock an arrow and shoot the bandit that had been sneaking up behind Feren with his axe raised to strike. The man crumpled to the ground with an arrow in his thigh; startled, Feren turned and shot Bard a quick nod in acknowledgment before returning his attention to the remaining bandits.

In the end it wasn't much of a fight. Seven bandits lay on the ground, three of them with arrows in them which Bard reclaimed absently, his eye on the copse of trees where the rest had disappeared with the Elves behind them. 

Tilda would be fine, he firmly told himself, struggling to quell the rising fear in his throat. There hadn't been time for her to be hurt, she'd always been good at wriggling her way out of trouble. The bastards would be too busy trying to escape to harm her, and there was no way a horse as scrawny as those of the bandits were could outpace an Elf-bred mount with a practiced rider. She'd be fine. Even if there was nothing he could do to help her with that, and it was driving him out of his mind with worry. 

She'd. Be. Fine.

He wished he were better at convincing himself. 

Sigrid mercifully gave him something to focus on when she rushed to his side once the Elves deemed it safe, eyes wide when she couldn't see Tilda anywhere. 

"She'll be all right," Bard told her with all the conviction he tried to make himself feel. "Remember when she stowed away on Jolf's barge and he didn't spot her until he was halfway to Dorwinion? She'll be just as fine."

The stony expression on Sigrid's face clearly said that she had a hard time believing it, but she managed a forced smile. "We'll get her back a lot sooner this time, too. I remember how worried you were."

She proved wonderfully prophetic when Elvish riders appeared from the trees and slowly made their way across the brook, herding a handful of bandits along. Bard had no eyes for them, though, only for Tilda in the saddle before Thranduil, covered in mud and leaves but looking unharmed. 

"Da!" As soon as Thranduil lifted her up and then lowered her to the ground, she cast herself into Bard's arms, burrowing into his coat while he held her as tightly as he could, only easing up a little when she squeaked in protest. 

"Are you all right?" he asked into her dirty hair, reaching up to pluck a leaf away.

"He grabbed me, and I tried to get free, but I couldn't," she told him, her voice more excited than scared. "But then I bit him and kicked him and I scratched him so he dropped me and tried to run away. And then the Elves were there, and they got all of them."

"You need to stay out of trouble!" Sigrid scolded as she came to join them in their hug, and Bard carefully leaned to the side so Tilda wouldn't get squished between them. "I was so worried, and Da too!" 

"I believe it wasn't her fault," Thranduil said behind them. He'd dismounted by now and was holding the reins of his horse while the other Elves were corralling the bandits into a tight group. "She conducted herself quite admirably for the circumstances. We only had to catch up with them and collect her." 

Bard shot him a grateful smile, Tilda's head tucked tightly under his chin. 

Thranduil nodded in response. Then his eyes widened when Sigrid suddenly turned, stepped up to him and threw her arms around him, hugging him close. "Thank you," she murmured into his chest.

It was the first time Bard saw Thranduil genuinely at a loss for words, even if it only lasted for a breath's length before he raised a hand and somewhat hesitantly patted Sigrid's back. "I did promise your father that nothing would happen to you or your sister. Oaths are not lightly forsaken."

Knowing more now about Elvish history than he had been aware of before his brief stay in Thranduil's halls, Bard had to agree. He also had to wonder what would happen if Thranduil ever failed to uphold a promise he had made. 

There were hints to be seen in the way the Elves dealt with the bandits at their king's command once they'd taken care of their own injured. Nobody had died this day, but two of the guards had been wounded in the fight, one of them badly enough that Thranduil's own efforts were required to heal him. Bard's people were badly shaken at finding themselves under attack the moment they left their safe haven where they'd found shelter for the winter. It didn't put Bard into a friendly frame of mind, and the Elves clearly took cues from their king where their attitude towards the bandits was concerned. 

"The laws have been clear since the first Edain settled here." Thranduil surveyed the the bandits huddled together on the ground, one hand on the pommel of his sword as he addressed them. Feren stood by his side, equally watchful. "Harm my people or those under my protection and you will suffer the consequences."

"Are we to take them back with us, my Lord?" Feren asked. 

Thranduil shook his head. "Why burden ourselves with keeping such rabble in the dungeons?"

Several of the bandits gasped at that; one raised his hands in supplication. "Please, my Lord," he begged, "please."

Thranduil looked down at him, his expression hard. "You attacked me and my people. You attacked those I swore to protect. You captured the Lord of Dale's daughter, and it was sheer luck that she came to no harm. Why should I be lenient?"

It was difficult to just stand by and watch, but Bard forced himself to remain quiet for now. He couldn't protest this, not when he still couldn't quite quench the urge to hurt them for daring to lay a hand on Tilda. These men had been the ones to attack, they had been ready to injure and kill in order to get what they wanted. And yet Bard saw the difference between them and his own people in the clothes so badly suited to the weather, the beginning of hunger on their faces. 

But he'd gone hungry more often than he cared to remember. He'd worn garments so threadbare that they were more patches than anything. His children had shivered in the cold during the worst winter nights when what firewood they'd scrounged up hadn't been enough to warm even one room. Even then, robbery hadn't crossed his mind.

"We were only on patrol," the bandit tried. "On orders of the Master."

Bard saw Thranduil's eyes narrow at that and shook his head at the questioning glance. "You're not from Lake-town," he said. "I'd know you, and I've never seen you there."

"The Master took us in for the winter, said he'd give us food if we joined the guard," the bandit hastily explained, a few of his companions nodding in agreement. "What else were we to do?"

"Find another place, one not ruled by that sodding bastard," Bard growled. "Downriver there's always work to be had." 

"They wouldn't have us there anymore!"

Which said enough about the men Alfrid was gathering in Lake-town. His hands balled into fists, he straightened and forced himself to look at each of their captives before turning to Thranduil. "I've heard about the laws you've enforced in these cases."

Thranduil nodded. "As it will be done again," he said, and at a wave of his hand Feren stepped forward, his dagger drawn. 

Before them, the bandits froze. "Please," one of them whispered. "Mercy, my Lords. Please."

Thranduil regarded them with his usual disdain, though this time there was less mockery and more menace about it. "You're warned. You shall not set foot in the Woodland Realm, you shall not come within sight of Dale's walls. You won't prey on others again. Go against these commands and death will be your reward." Glancing at Feren, he gestured towards the bandits. "Mark them so if they're caught again, every sentry will know that they've been given their chance."

With a grim nod Feren stalked towards the first bandit and seized him. 

"I always thought that was only a story you made up to scare us," Sigrid said, her eyes wide as she watched their attackers be dragged to their feet one by one. A flash of the blade, a dab of healing and they were left with a notch in their ear that wasn't going to close anytime soon.

"To be honest, I thought so, too. Your great-grandmother used it as a threat when I misbehaved." Which hadn't happened all that often; she'd been convincing where such matters had been concerned. But he'd thought even then that she was merely making things up. It drove home the point that while Elves were graceful and elegant creatures, there was also a sharp ferocity about them that was forgotten at your own peril.

***

That evening, Dale celebrated the first real feast in its short existence at the return of their evacuated people. Not all might have come back yet, but it was the most visible sign they all had that there was a future for their city and that matters were looking up. The snow was almost gone, the days were turning longer, warmer and sunnier, and along with the beginning of the planting season it was as good an excuse as any to have some fun. That most of the traditional ingredients to a party - plenty of food and, more importantly, plenty of ale - were missing didn't stop anyone; they simply made up for it with more singing and dancing, which was just as well and saved everybody the collective hangover the next morning.

The Elves looked on with some bemusement at the antics around them, but a few of the more enterprising ones eventually joined in. Bard saw Feren chat amicably with a handful of fishermen-turned-militia, and a brave Elf dared approach the musicians and eventually joined when she was lent a flute, though the instrument had to be a lot more off tone than what she was used to. He even spotted Tauriel off to one side, watching carefully as Sigrid showed her the steps to a dance while singing along to the music. 

Thranduil surveyed it all from a high-backed chair that had been shoved up against the wall of the great hall to make more room, his faintly amused mask firmly in place so Bard could only guess at his thoughts. But he didn't leave despite being given the opportunity to do so more than once, and once or twice Bard thought he caught at least a hint of a genuine smile slip through when the singing turned particularly rowdy. 

The Elvenking certainly wasn't in a bad mood by the time the party wound down, judging by the way Bard found himself getting tumbled into his bed once they could make their excuses. A determined-looking Thranduil following him down with a devious glint in his eyes. 

"I thought you'd be tired after the journey," Bard gasped as he was shoved back almost roughly, cushions scattering all around them. Reaching up, he dragged Thranduil down to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other tangled in his long, soft hair, the grip not quite as gentle as it perhaps should have been.

"Elves have no need for sleep," Thranduil reminded him with a haughty smirk, bowing his head to claim a thorough kiss that left both of them briefly distracted as they shifted together, their clothes swiftly discarded though it took Bard a few attempts to get rid of his tunic entirely. 

Pushing up against the deceptively light hold quickly proved futile and just earned him a sharp bite at the base of his bared throat, then another when that drew a pleased sigh from him. "No rest, then, and looks like you don't have much of a need for patience either." 

That bit of teasing got him a chuckle that sounded almost suspicious to his ears. "I assure you, I can be patient," Thranduil told him, punctuating his statement with a feather-light brush of his lips against Bard's. "Very, very patient."

Bard quirked an eyebrow at him, then managed to startle him into a half-swallowed moan when he carefully brought up his thigh between Thranduil's, giving him just enough friction. "We'll see about that."

***

"I don't see why you had to bring the poncy forest sprite," Dáin grumbled when they marched across the plain between Erebor and Dale the next day to survey the state of what was supposed to be arable land. Seizing the opportunity for negotiations was unavoidable, it seemed, even when all three of them weren't particularly eager at the prospect.

A lack of eagerness at negotiating with Dwarves once more certainly wasn't stopping Thranduil from sniping. "Afraid that your stubby legs won't be able to keep up with us?"

"I'll axe yours off at the knees, see what you'll do then." Dáin stopped to kick at a bit of rock that looked just like thousands of others strewn across the plain but for some reason warranted closer attention. 

Bard dutifully watched as Dáin kicked the rock once more, then again, and risked a glance at Thranduil only to see the Elf with a thoughtful expression on his face. He had the growing suspicion that he was missing something here. 

"Slag," Dáin eventually pronounced. 

Thranduil nodded. "An unfortunate side effect of harbouring a dragon. Some of the soil from my realm will probably improve matters, but not if the ground is solid stone. Can something be done?"

"They'll be picking lumps off the fields for a decade, but the soil underneath looks fertile. No reason why it shouldn't be, there've been good harvests off these fields for centuries. They'll need proper ploughs and harrows though, none of that shoddy Elf work I've seen. Pretty twigs, the lot of them."

"We have other means of tilling," Thranduil countered, though he didn't sound particularly bothered by the criticism. "Far more elegant means than dragging tools across fields for days. Not that you'd understand, of course."

Dáin scoffed at him. "Go on then, pixie, snap your fingers and make stuff grow around here." 

Thranduil perfunctorily ignored him and turned to Bard. "Have you found farming gear in Dale? They cultivated most of the land around the city, something ought to have been left behind. And with some luck it was made well enough that it's still usable, though given that most tools were probably supplied by Erebor…"

"That means it doesn't take any luck for them to still function," Dáin growled. "What we Dwarves craft endures, not like your flimsy, feeble attempts." 

Bard heaved a sigh. "I'll take whatever hasn't crumbled to dust yet, and I don't care who made it," he said, chin raised to give both of them a look full of all the exasperation he wasn't bothering to hide. "We've got ploughs that look like they're in decent shape, and we've even got a few people who know how to use them. What we're missing are horses or oxen to pull them unless either of you can lend me some ponies or draft horses for a week or so." 

They continued to walk along one of the ditches in the ground that looked as though it might have been part of an irrigation system once upon a time. Another matter to take care of, Bard thought with a growing sense of fatalism. That list wasn't ever going to grow shorter again, he was certain of that. 

"You'll have your horses within a few days," Thranduil said, nimbly sidestepping around the remnants of a shattered Orc axe. Slag wasn't the only stuff they'd be picking off the fields for the coming years. "I've sent a request to Calemir to supply you with the beginnings of a breeding stock, you'll need them."

Bard's eyebrows rose at that. "You're making your son send me horses? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but Dorwinion’s quite some distance. Seems like a lot of effort for a few ponies." He'd expected an offer to borrow some of the larger animals that had been used for the supply carts, as well as a counter-offer from Dáin for whatever Dwarves used as draft animals because the King under the Mountain couldn't possibly stand by and let the Elves have the upper hand. He hadn't expected another Elf-lord to get involved in this, especially when Bard was currently climbing into bed with said Elf-lord’s father. He hadn’t met Calemir yet, but if he was anything like his brothers, Bard wasn’t sure he wanted to be in his debt. 

Dáin looked equally surprised, though his eyes narrowed with suspicion after a moment. "We'll provide horses as well and also repair the tools." 

"They'll hardly need so many horses," Thranduil countered. "Especially not Dwarf ponies when we can supply properly sized animals from Dorwinion’s best herds that will actually be useful."

"Ours will be given, and accepted." Dáin turned to look at Bard. "Won't they?"

One of these days he had to figure out a way to stop Thranduil and Dáin from being competitively helpful. There was no denying that Dale profited from the situation, and Bard wasn't about to tell them to stop, but he was walking a fine line whenever he accepted assistance from one side while the other struggled to find a way to outdo them. 

"I'm not going to decline the horses from the Elves, or to the offer of repairs from the Dwarves," he said carefully. "And of course we'll pay for them."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "That won't be necessary. Consider it a gift from Dorwinion to Dale."

"Didn’t think you ruled more than just your bunch of squirrels up in Mirkwood," Dáin muttered. "Giving away stuff that isn't yours, are you now?"

"I merely suggested assistance, the decision was Lord Calemir's. Dorwinion does profit from a recovered Dale, so it is only a reasonable stance for them to assume." It was hard to miss that Thranduil carefully avoided any statement about the status of Dorwinion, something Bard wasn't quite certain about yet. He knew from his barge trips downriver that it was an Elf-dominated settlement, and he'd always assumed that they were essentially independent. Of course, at the time he hadn't been aware that Dorwinion's leader was Thranduil's eldest son and heir, which had to turn the place into something like a satellite territory of Mirkwood. 

Elves, trust them to make matters complicated. 

"Dorwinion doesn't need Dale," Dáin stated bluntly. "They've got far more important trading partners. I've been in close enough contact with those southern pointy-ears as Lord of the Iron Hills, and Dale's nothing but an afterthought to them. But your boy's going to listen to you, and you've told him to get involved. So what are you getting out of it?"

Thranduil glanced at their attendants, who were waiting at a respectful distance while the three of them took their walk, too far for the Dwarves or Bain and Percy to be able to listen. The Elves' ears were keen enough, but Imrahil and Feren could presumably be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

"I gain the same as you will, only you don't see it yet," Thranduil said. "Which probably should be forgiven. It cannot be expected of Dwarves to make far-seeing decisions when they need to climb on a rock to see further than they can reach with their stubby arms." He graced Dáin with a smile that was full of teeth. "Would you like me to explain it to you?"

Dáin scowled up at him. "Damned Elves," he growled. "Do whatever you want, just don't think that we'll stand by and let you drag Dale into your fancy forest fairy politics while we look on and let your influence grow. I won't have a settlement right in front of my nose that's a puppet on your strings."

"We're hardly puppets!" Straightening, Bard took a step towards Dáin before catching himself at it and stopping, forcing his posture to soften again. "We need help, I'm not going to deny that, but we're working on becoming self-sufficient as quickly as we can. I'm not interested in depending on charity a day longer than we have to, but I'm also not going to give up good relations with my neighbours once we've achieved that."

Dáin huffed with a mix of humor and derision. "Good relations, eh? Might as well call an axe an axe and say that you're shagging that overgrown pixie. Or the other way round, whatever lights your torch."

Bard blinked and opened his mouth, then shut it again when he couldn't think of a reply to that. He hadn't harboured any illusions about the Elves being aware of what had been going on since that first evening in Thranduil's tent, and his own people had definitely caught on by the time the Elvenking had begun to sleep in his room. But he hadn't thought that gossip would trickle down to the Dwarves quite that fast. 

He wondered whether it denoted a diplomatic incident that he was trying to maintain a balance with the two powers currently stabilising his city and at the same time sleeping with only one of them. It could probably be called preferential treatment.

"Don't look at me like a startled owl, lad. At least you won't be hatching little pointy-ears with him, not with those skinny hips on both of you." Dáin shook his head and patted his beard with both hands. 

"As if a tunnel-grubber would know anything about such matters," Thranduil drawled, looking far too innocent for the entire situation. Bard shot him a glare to wordlessly tell him that he wasn't helping. 

Dáin glanced back and forth between them, then gave one more huff and appeared to put the matter behind him. "So about those ploughs and harrows… You show them to one of my Dwarves tomorrow and they'll get repaired."

"At a fair price." Bard was quite proud of recovering his voice and his wits again, especially when Thranduil was smirking at him with the same bright amusement in his eyes that had so far been reserved for far more private settings. "I only wanted the gold so we could rebuild, I might as well use it and not hoard it. We'll pay for the horses as well, Lord Calemir's just going to have to accept that." 

In a weird way it was like settling a squabble between Sigrid and Bain over the stuffed toy sheep they'd both adored, only they'd been toddlers at the time, not reigning kings with centuries or even millennia of knowledge and experience.. And while Thranduil and Dáin had calmed down considerably where their insults and sniping was concerned, they clearly weren't about to stop. 

The rest of their trip across the future fields was reasonably productive, if only thanks to Bard keeping a tight rein on the discussion from that point on. Questions of crops were settled with Thranduil's suggestions, while Dáin promised to look into irrigation, and they all agreed that whatever harvest could be managed would go to Dale first, with any surplus to be sold to the Dwarves. Normal questions with normal answers, at least as long as they pretended not to see the occasional partial remains of Orcs still scattered across the field. Bard found it hard enough to know of all the blood that had been spilled here without a visual reminder.

"I wouldn't be superstitious about it," Dáin said when he voiced that thought, kicking an Orcish helmet aside with his steel-capped boot. "The plain's been the best soil in the past, and it's got the river, too. No point in ignoring it just because there's been a battle here. There've been battles everywhere at one point. Turn it into something useful again and reclaim it." 

Thranduil looked as though he were about to disagree, then gave a minute shake of his head and remained silent. The Elves would doubtlessly remember this battle far longer than the Dwarves or Men, if only because even in a few hundred years, most of them could still give first-hand accounts of what had happened and where. 

"It's not like we've got much of a choice about it," Bard said eventually, trying the taste of the idea that their food would grow on soil where blood had been shed so recently. It left a touch of unease, but he quelled that ruthlessly in favour of pragmatism. "If we farm the land across the ridge, it's going to lose us two hours a day we'd spend trekking back and forth, and there's only a small brook to use for irrigation. That would take much more work."

Dáin nodded in agreement. "Keep that for expansion in a few years, once you've got enough hands. And for now just think of it as not wasting land that's been bought at a high price. The dead won't hold grudges over seeing it put to good use. It's why they fought after all."

***


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm not sure," Bard panted in the semi-darkness of his bedroom, "whether to thank Dáin for getting you this riled or to complain to him about the bruises."

Thranduil's discussions with Dáin, taking place on the neutral ground that was Dale, had been held just between the two kings today and had taken up most of the day, with only brief breaks to allow for some fresh air and consultation with advisors. Bard by now had been able to catch the small signs that showed Thranduil wasn't entirely pleased with the results, and it hadn't been entirely surprising when all that frustration had eventually resulted in quite fabulous sex once Thranduil had managed to drag him behind a closed door and eventually into bed. It was the one part of negotiations that Bard could genuinely say he enjoyed.

"As if I whipped you," Thranduil purred and pushed himself up on one elbow to get a better look, reaching out to trace the spot at Bard's throat where he'd definitely raised a mark earlier if all the kissing, nipping and sucking had been any indication. It was a good thing the Elf-tailored tunics Bard tended to wear these days came with high collars, or he'd never hear the end of it. "Besides, I don't recall hearing any protests." 

"You didn't give me much of an opportunity to protest." Reaching up, Bard caught a pale strand of hair and tugged to emphasize his words, keeping it just this side of painful. "I'm talking about the bruises on my shins from when you made me walk into the bed frame. And the one on my arse when you shoved me against that wall." He tugged again, grinning when he got a wordless grumble and gentling his touch into slow petting. "Menace."

"Like I said, I didn't hear complaints. Judging by what you did to my tunic, I don't believe there was any reason to think you disapproved."

Bard cast a fleeting glance at the garment in question. In the faint candlelight it didn't look too damaged, but he suspected the intricate little silver clasps might not be quite the same anymore. "Just trying to go with the flow. Serves you right for wearing such fussy stuff. What's wrong with something reasonable, like lacings?"

"Sartorial critique from someone who wore a turnip sack to our first meeting," Thranduil drawled, briefly pushing his head against Bard's hand where it rested in his hair and humming contentedly when Bard resumed his petting. "I'll take it under advice."

"Some of us prefer to wear garments that are actually practical and let us do proper work. And it wasn't a turnip sack." Bard heaved a slow, deep sigh and let his eyes fall shut, his muscles blissfully loose and heavy with fading pleasure. "I have to admit that I could get used to this."

"And yet you complain," Thranduil told him but leaned in to kiss, the gesture light and without any obvious intention behind it. 

"A matter of principle," Bard returned, rolling onto his side and settling into the kiss, too lazy to put up much more than a token fight to dictate their pace. 

He truly could get used to this, if it weren't for the awareness that Thranduil and his retinue would leave within the next few days now that all matters in Dale had been settled that had required the Elvenking's personal attention. Bard didn't harbour any illusions that it could be otherwise, that Thranduil could stay or that he could accompany him to the Woodland Realm for anything beyond a visit required by politics or diplomacy. But right now, with Thranduil in his bed, warm and solid and quite tempting again even in light of the exhaustion and faint, pleasant aches that still lingered from their earlier coupling... It wasn't difficult to imagine, if only for a moment. 

"I'll be returning by the solstice," Thranduil eventually said into the silence that had fallen between them, shifting to rest his head on their shared pillow. He was close enough that Bard only had to lean forward a little to let his arm brush against Thranduil's chest, a small but firm point of contact. "There are still matters to be settled, with you and with Dáin both."

"Today wasn't enough for that?" Bard asked. 

Thranduil frowned and rolled his eyes. "Making that Dwarf see reason will require more than just a day. At least he isn't as deluded as Thorin was about certain realities of our shared situation."

"Gandalf said Thorin was the more reasonable," Bard offered. He was grasping the dynamics of politics more with every passing day, but the opportunity to observe Thranduil's thoughts on the matter wasn't to be passed up, no matter the circumstances. It might make for odd pillow talk, but it wasn't as if they were particularly romantic anyway. It was a good thing he didn’t have to woo the Elf; he wasn’t really certain how to go about that kind of thing.

"Only because Dáin isn't nearly as easy to manipulate." Pausing, Thranduil reached up to tuck a long strand of hair back behind his ear, then let his hand fall to cover Bard's wrist where it rested between them. "He also isn't nearly as foolish, so I have my hopes that he'll come around to share my point of view eventually. I'll just have to allow him some time to digest the matter. He's a Dwarf, speed cannot be expected."

Bard huffed to mask a laugh, but didn't think he entirely succeeded. "One day you'll forget to insult him."

"Perish the thought. With Dáin it's practically a matter of diplomatic necessity to remember insults, he'd be terribly confused otherwise." Thranduil began to lazily trace patterns on the back of Bard's hand, the touch just firm enough not to tickle. "I thought you appreciated the results."

Eyebrows raised, Bard treated him to a look that hopefully told him plainly that the lack of subtlety was noted. "Like I said. Bruises."

"Perhaps compensation can be negotiated?" Thranduil suggested, shifting closer to slide an arm around Bard's waist to bring them together. 

"That's what earned me the bruises in the first place," Bard said but let himself be drawn in, tilting his chin up in expectation of a kiss that was duly granted. "Any advice for me while you're gone?"

He saw Thranduil's expression turn thoughtful in the faint light. They'd spoken of this already with Sigrid and Bain present so they could observe and learn, but Bard was aware that there were matters Thranduil wouldn't address with anyone else listening in. That was what today's meeting with Dáin had been about, after all, though presumably in less comfortable surroundings. 

"The summer will be warm with just enough rain, so you have good chances for a harvest that sees your people through the next year," Thranduil said after some consideration. "They'll need that encouragement, so be sure to make it plain to them that all is well, but don't promise too much. You must be the one they feel they can place their trust in. Right now they do, but you'll lose it if you create expectations you cannot fulfill. Your bellies may be full in the coming year, but that doesn't mean that you'll have an easy time."

Bard nodded, turning his hand over to interlace their fingers. "Do you know this or… know it?" he asked, not quite certain how to put what he was thinking into words, or whether there was an actual distinction between experience and precognition. 

Thranduil chuckled. "I know it," he said, then turned serious again. "But if you wonder whether I know it like I know that the next weeks will bring the right weather for planting and that the summer is going to be kind to your crops… I've seen war and its aftermath often enough to be aware of patterns. Dale is in a better position than many others have been, and you have the protection of my realm and that of the Dwarves, whatever good the latter will do you. Listen to your people, find out what they hope for and what fears keep them awake at night. Those are greater dangers to Dale's stability and future than any enemies can be. And you'll have to face your share of those."

Drawing a slow breath, Bard thought this over, then nodded again. "We'll do our best," he said. "As for enemies… Imrahil's been muttering about training everybody on at least one weapon, perhaps I should just let him."

"At times he can be wise," Thranduil allowed.

Bard quirked an eyebrow at him. "He's still convinced you practically exiled him because you're punishing him for some transgression he's not aware of. By now he's grumbling less, though. I think he's resigned himself to being doomed to an existence among Men with strange ideas and a scandalous scarcity of baths. Mind, ever since I've see yours I'm beginning to understand why he makes such a fuss about it."

"Dale of old had proper baths, you merely need to rebuild them," Thranduil pointed out. "I'm certain your people will appreciate it." 

"They'll also appreciate having fewer naked Elves in the fountains."

Thranduil blinked. "That is a problem?"

"Apparently washing clothes has become difficult because the basin that's been designated for that use has been appropriated by off-duty Elves. Seems they're also absconding with laundry soap. There've been complaints." Bard paused, still a bit baffled by the entire matter. It was one of those aspects of leadership nobody had warned him about. 

"I'll have proper soap delivered with the next supply run," Thranduil said, sounding suspiciously formal, as if he were concentrating on not laughing. "As for the apparently rampant nudity… you might as well tell your people to join in, or at least enjoy the view."

"Naked Elves?"

Thranduil stretched against him in a way that clearly wasn't coincidental, his bare skin deceptively soft and smooth despite the firm muscles beneath. "Unless you believe it would be too distracting."

"I fail to see why that would be distracting," Bard said but let himself be coaxed into a kiss quite happily, aware that any and all talk of serious matters was over for the night, though sleep was long in coming.

The next morning it was difficult to stay awake during their seemingly neverending diplomatic discussions, this time on the thoroughly riveting topic of grazing rights. Fortunately contributions from Bard didn’t appear to be required, so he focused on keeping his eyes open and did his best to look reasonably attentive while Thranduil and Dáin bickered and sniped their way to an agreement. 

He didn’t, however, miss the looks Thranduil shot him whenever a particularly vigorous bout of insults was achieved: haughty and proud as always, but with a glint to his grey eyes that said Bard had better not plan on a restful night. It was enough to make him wake up a bit more, though it also made his breeches a little uncomfortable

Perhaps napping during negotiations wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

Once again Thranduil's predictions about the weather proved accurate. Spring brought the right blend of rain and warmer days to turn the tilled fields from a barren wasteland into a green sea spread between Dale and the gates of the Lonely Mountain. Fieldwork hadn't been easy even with the assistance of fresh horses, seed grain from the Elves, and Dwarvish tools, and after that week everybody had been exhausted to the bone. But now they were beginning to see the fruits of their labour: delicate shoots of rye that grew sturdier and higher with every passing day and would hopefully provide them with the basis for their supplies for the coming year. They were trying their hands at vegetables as well, and Bard was feeling cautiously optimistic that his people wouldn't have to exist on lembas alone over the next winter. He just hoped everybody liked cabbages, potatoes and all kinds of roots, since it looked like they'd be having a lot of those. 

The Dwarves kept an eager eye on the fields and asked for preliminary purchase contracts that Bard didn't quite comprehend until Dáin made an offhand remark about opposition among the Dwarves in the Iron Hills to their lord's new project in Erebor. From that basis it wasn't too hard to put together the full picture. Dáin had no reliable supply lines, and he probably would be damned before he asked Thranduil for help. Who, of course, would magnanimously grant it if only to have something to mock the Dwarves with for the next few centuries. 

Elves. Dwarves. Politics. Bard could only roll his eyes, shake his head and make sure the fields were coming along nicely so they wouldn't have a turnip-related diplomatic crisis on their hands by winter. 

By the time the grain stood knee high it became easier again to find an hour or two away from the fields. There still were plenty of people working with the Dwarves on reviving the old irrigation canals, but others could return to the tasks within Dale and continue to turn it from ruins and rubble into a proper city. Most of the upper town had been cleared out by now, and they'd handle the buildings lower on the hill whenever they found the time, since they weren't immediately required for housing or storage. It just wouldn't do to let them crumble further. 

"The Dwarves are talking about the underground tunnels again," Bain told him one afternoon when he'd seized a chance of a few quiet hours to spend with his children. Ostensibly it was to have them practice their archery, though Bard was just as happy to get away from the plethora of lists and documents that had taken over his life lately and be out in the sun instead. An hour of peace and quiet, just he and his children, and while Tauriel accompanied them as a guard, she kept her distance and mostly acted like a shadow. 

"Of course they're underground, they're tunnels, no need to say it," Tilda scolded her brother, a disapproving frown on her face. "You're just making it complicated." 

Bain glanced at her, then made a show of focusing on the target set up on the other side of the yard. He raised his bow, aimed and released. The arrow hit not too far from the center. "They could build walls and roofs over walkways and cover them, that would make it a tunnel as well," he said. 

"Why would they do that?"

"Perhaps to hide. It would make sense sometimes." Bain shot another arrow, closer to the center by a finger's width this time, then turned for a nod and smile of approval that Bard was happy to provide. From her perch up on one of the low walls surrounding the yard they'd chosen for their practice, Tauriel too looked on with interest. 

"Has Dáin said anything to you yet?" Sigrid asked.

Bard shook his head. "He mentioned it in the winter, but nothing since then. We'll just have to wait and see." Apparently there were old, partially collapsed tunnels connecting Dale and the Lonely Mountain, something Bard wasn't sure what to think about. It could be useful, but it was also a potential gateway for attacks that would have to be taken into account. They might be allies, but the Mountain had been conquered before. 

"It could be useful." Sigrid accepted the bow from her brother. There were plenty of weapons in the armory that she could have had her own, but so far she hadn't been too eager about it. She knew how to handle a bow and kept up her practice enough that it wouldn't be useless in her hands if it ever came to that, but Bard didn't think she'd ever be truly comfortable. "If Dale or Erebor are ever under siege, it would be an escape route. And it could have made travel back and forth easier this winter when the snow was hip deep."

"And what would the Dwarves get out of it?" Bard asked, watching as Sigrid shifted into the proper stance and raised the bow. From her seat on the wall behind them, he saw Tauriel observe with narrowed eyes as he continued, “They won't do it without a clear, immediate benefit. Shoulders down, keep them in line with your hips."

Sigrid adjusted her posture, then shot. The arrow struck the target, not nearly as close to the center as Bain's shots had been but still good enough to make it count. "I suppose they'll want us to pay for it," she said, "so they'll be able to reclaim a little more gold. The escape route works both ways, too. And I think they're uncomfortable when there's something broken that they built. They've repaired most of Erebor by now, but they haven't touched the tunnels yet. Balin said something to me last week about Dwarves not liking it when something they've made isn't in working order."

"I think he was talking about the little toy horses at the time," Bain said, handing her another arrow. 

"The idea is the same." Sigrid took aim once more but released the arrow too quickly. It struck the wall to the left of the target, clattering to the paved floor. "Damn," she muttered, checking to see that nobody had arrows nocked before she went to retrieve it. The tip would be useless after the impact but perhaps the shaft could be salvaged. 

Bard watched her as she walked towards the targets, not missing the tension that had once again settled into her stance, turning her steps just a little too fast, her shoulders a little too sharp. It had been there since she and Tilda had returned from Mirkwood, the intensity waxing and waning but never fading completely. Something was on her mind, had been for weeks now, but Bard hadn't been able to coax it out of her yet. Sigrid would tell him if it became a true problem, he trusted her enough for that. For now she was keeping it to herself though she clearly couldn't shake it. 

"Can I try next?" Tilda asked when Sigrid was safely out of the line of fire again. 

Bard made a point of looking her up and down before glancing at the longbow in Bain's hand that still was almost too big for her older siblings. Bain had grown into it over the winter, but it gave Sigrid plenty of trouble and he couldn't quite picture Tilda handling it. 

"We'll find you something smaller," he promised, smiling at her scowl. Whether she'd be able to handle the draw was another question, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. At worst he'd have to take the time to make a bow that matched her strength; Bain and Sigrid had learned on such a smaller-scale weapon, but it had been lost in the destruction of Lake-town. 

"Some of the Elves have bows that might suit you," Tauriel said suddenly. "If you wish, I can ask to borrow one."

Clapping her hands in delight, Tilda beamed up at her. "Oh please! That would be wonderful!"

Tauriel looked a little startled at the sudden enthusiasm but managed a small smile, which was more than Bard had seen on her for most of the winter. "I'll ask," she promised. 

"Can you ask today?"

Her hesitation was brief but noticeable, her smile turning a little forced. By now the other Elves had relaxed around her again, following Imrahil's example in this, but there still was a perceivable distance. They didn't quite know what to make of her and so they were cautious, while Tauriel didn't make any move herself to approach them. Bard suspected that in a way she preferred it this way. Mourning took time, he knew that only too well. Eventually she'd have to decide where she wanted her place to be, but she didn't seem about to make that choice just yet. For now she appeared content to have non-Elvish company, and she'd settled well into her tasks as occasional guard to Bard, as well as his advisor to all things weird and Elvish. 

"I don't think I can find you a bow today," she told Tilda and hopped down from her perch to land soundlessly on her booted feet. "But perhaps you'd like to try something else?"

Making Tilda that kind of offer only ever garnered one response. "Yes! What?"

Tauriel reached for her belt and drew a short knife from its sheath. "Have you ever learned how to throw one of these?"

Tilda shook her head, her eyes bright and eager. Behind her, Bain looked curious and Sigrid, too, stepped closer to have a better view. 

For the next hour Bard watched as his children learned to throw knives with gradually increasing success. It wasn't a skill ever taught in Lake-town outside the less reputable taverns, but he certainly wasn't going to protest anything that might keep them safe one day. Life hadn't been free of peril even before the dragon had turned their home into ashes and ruins, and he had no illusions that they'd be entirely safe in Dale. Better that they learned what they could.

"Some talent must run in their blood," Tauriel said to him a little while later when they stood to the side to let the children practice. "I didn't think they'd take to it so quickly, but they've got a hand for it. Especially Sigrid."

Nodding, Bard waited to see his older daughter throw the knife once again, swift enough by now that it seemed she wasn't really taking aim anymore though he knew she was fully focused on what she was doing. "It's good that she is. She doesn't like being bad at something."

"That must have been difficult sometimes." It was the first real opening for conversation Tauriel had ever given him, probably not entirely on purpose as most of her attention was on the children, ready to interfere if something went wrong. 

"She's pushed herself a lot and I don't think she'll stop anytime soon," Bard agreed. "It may be easier for her now, even with all the problems we're facing."

Tauriel cast him a curious look. 

"In Lake-Town her path in life would have been set," he attempted to explain. "She'd marry, she'd have children at some point, she'd be running a household and perhaps she'd run a small market stall if her husband happened to be a craftsman or a trader."

"That sounds…" Tauriel trailed off, visibly searching for the right words. "Small," she eventually settled for.

Bard shrugged, wincing when Bain took his turn and threw so far off target that the knife clattered to the ground with a sharp ring of metal. "My wife was content with it," he said with a wistful smile at the memory. Kari had lived for their little family and their friends, always ready to laugh and lend a hand, always busy with whatever needed doing. "Sigrid… I couldn't wish for a better daughter. She's always taken on much more than her share, she's done her best to help with raising Tilda. That's far more than I'd ever have asked of her. But I don't think it would have been enough for her."

Tauriel leaned against the wall behind them, hands folded at the small of her back. She managed to make the stance look comfortable and graceful at the same time. "What else could there have been for her?"

"As the daughter of a poor bargeman? Not much unless she'd wanted to become a herb woman, and that wouldn't have been an easy life. But now…" Bard looked around at the old walls of Dale, at the rooftops he could see when he looked down at the lower parts of the city. "I don't think there are set paths anymore."

"That's good, isn't it? There are more choices open to her, and fewer limits."

"It makes her push herself all the harder," Bard said, trying to put his concerns into words. "Too hard perhaps. That she has far more options is something I'd never take away from her. Just in the last few months she's done things no girl from the lake would ever have been able to. I just worry she'll not know when it's too much. She's already taking on far more responsibility than she should have to."

Tauriel considered this, eyes on Sigrid as she helped Tilda with her aim. "Have you told her to do less?"

Bard gave a brief huff of laughter. "I tried. She just smiled at me and told me not to worry."

"Perhaps you should listen to her?"

"I'm her father, it's my duty to worry." Ruffling a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, Bard cast Tauriel a self-depreciating smile. "I won't stand in her way, but it's difficult sometimes when she tries so hard that she makes me flinch."

"She'll know when to stop. Perhaps she'll have a bloody nose a few times from running into trees, but she'll know. And she'll learn from it."

"Sounds like experience."

It was Tauriel's turn to look a little sheepish. "I may have been stubborn about learning some things. To join the guard you have to be a talented fighter, and that's much easier to accomplish when you're tall." She gestured at herself, her hand drawing a swift line from her thigh to her shoulder. "I wasn't going to let that stop me, so I practiced until I couldn't remember how many bowstrings I'd worn out and how many times I had to re-sharpen my weapons."

Curiously cocking his head, Bard met her eyes. He'd known that she was a warrior, Imrahil had said as much, but there had never been any mention of her precise position among the Elves' forces. "So what happened?"

Tauriel smiled, and there was a flash of bright pride in her eyes. "I got myself a bloody nose more than a few times. But eventually I was good enough that Lord Thranduil took notice, and he gave me a chance. I've been a captain of his guard, and I've earned it."

"And now?" Bard asked. 

Tauriel's smile turned sad. "Now," she said with a glance at the children, "I'll have to find another path and see where it leads, and whether I want to walk it."

***

Deep gouges marred the walls protecting Dale's citadel. Bard had always thought they'd come from the battle against the forces of Gundabad and Dol Guldur, and repairs had already begun. Mere blemishes they might be, but the Dwarves were thorough and Bard was grateful for it. Dale needed to be safe, and each and every stone set in the walls mattered. 

When he saw the dragon, he realized that the gouges were claw marks. 

Dale had been devastated by Smaug, they all knew that. The city had burned under his fire, just like Lake-town had, and so many of Dale's people had died in that inferno. Not even scavengers had dared to come close to the Mountain once Smaug had settled there, so the bones had remained undisturbed for almost two hundred years until the people of Lake-town had come in search of shelter. But if the dragon had damaged the walls, he had come closer than Bard had imagined even when he'd pictured the worst.

"I hunted them," Smaug echoed his thoughts. Fire shone from his maw as he spoke, casting the main square in a flickering light brighter than that of the moon and stars above. "They fled from me, and I could smell the terror they felt, such a sweet scent. No-one can hide from a dragon."

"Begone!" Bard hissed, reaching for the bow against his back. For once his arm obeyed, though it felt as though he were fighting wind and weather. "You are dead!"

Smaug laughed, a bellowing roar that shook Bard to the bone and beyond. "As if a puny mortal could slay me like a sheep. I'm your fate, Dragonslayer, like you were mine. While you live, you won't be rid of me." 

"Then I'll kill you again!" The bow was slippery under his fingers and he couldn't quite get a grip on it. Gritting his teeth, Bard tried again. 

"And that will stop me? You little creatures and your naive beliefs. I am Smaug the Golden, Smaug the Terrible! You're tied to me now, Dragonslayer." The dragon crept forward, long body rippling with the movement. Part of the wall crumbled under the enormous talons and crashed to the ground with a sound like rolling thunder. 

Twisting, Bard strained to finally catch hold of the bow. He could feel the bowstring across his chest and the solid weight of the quiver against his back, but whenever he closed his hand around the bow, it seemed to fade into nothing but dust. Harder and harder he tried, eyes on Smaug as the dragon came closer. 

"Da?"

Sigrid. And behind her Tilda and Bain, up on the steps before the Great Hall.

Bard drew a sharp breath. "Back inside!" he yelled, redoubling his efforts to arm himself. "Now!"

Sigrid stepped down into the square, eyes wide as she looked at the dragon. "Da? You said you'd keep him away from us!"

"Sigrid! Go back inside right now, all of you!"

Smaug's head swung around on his long neck, and Bard saw her freeze with terror. "Sigrid," the dragon growled as if tasting her name. "The Dragonslayer's daughter, are you? Foolish girl, you aren't even worth hunting. Too small, to slow. Too weak. I should crush you and be done with you. You and your sister and brother." 

The bow kept slipping from Bard's hand as Smaug slithered closer to his children. Desperation blurred his vision as he fought to find something, _anything_ to serve as a weapon. To at least make his legs move so he could shield his children from the dragon before them. But he was rooted to the spot, unable to take even one step. 

"Stay away from them, worm! Your quarrel is with me, not with them! I'm the one who killed you!"

The glint in Smaug's eyes was hard to take. "You are, Dragonslayer. And if I wished to repay the pain of an arrow to the heart, I couldn't find a better way. Once more you leave them undefended." He lifted one arm, the leathery wing unfolding, and brought it down in one fell sweep that came rushing towards Sigrid and Bain and Tilda, and Bard could only scream their names and watch-

***

"Bard, are you awake?"

He jerked upright, the stench of dragon still in his nose. The sheets clung to his sweat-soaked body. 

"We need you to do some lording," Percy continued from the other side of the door, his words accompanied by a sharp knock. "Alfrid's down in the main square, that little weasel."

It took a moment to shake off the dream and find his wits.

"What, Alfrid? What's he- Damn it, just give me a moment." Muttering curses under his breath and scrambling for his clothes, Bard hopped through the door on one leg, sword and belt in one still trembling hand and tugging one boot up his calf with the other. 

Percy was waiting for him out in the hallway, looking considerably more awake than Bard felt right now. The other man had always been an early riser and it clearly paid off now, and also meant that the night watch had taken to coming to him whenever something was up in the early hours of dawn. Bard wasn't about to complain.

"What does he want?" he asked, putting his now booted foot down and starting on his sword belt. Before the door of the girls' bedroom he stopped, fighting the urge to look inside and make sure they were fine. The urge won, and the quick glance at Tilda and Sigrid in their beds did more to settle him than anything else could have done.

"The sodding wanker's making a nuisance of himself," Percy said as they stomped down the stairs. "The Elves caught him at the gate and decided they'd rather stash him where they could keep a proper eye on him."

"So now we've got him sitting in the square? Wonderful." Belt and sword in place, Bard ran his hands through his hair - confusingly shorter now that he'd let Sigrid attack it with scissors a week ago because it had gotten too long - and tried to make it look as though he hadn't just rolled out of bed. 

"Him and ten guards, he's trying to impress us." It didn't take much imagination to picture the thoroughly unimpressed look on Percy's face. "Mind, I'd say it's impressive enough that he's found ten people to go along with whatever harebrained scheme he's cooked up."

Bard shook his head. "They're not the ones he'll cause trouble for," he grumbled, checked himself for a moment, then reached to push open the door and step outside, Percy dutifully flanking him. 

Alfrid and his companions still sat on their mud-spattered, unhappy horses, clearly unwilling to give up the advantage of height. In the pale morning light it was hard to say for sure but it looked as though they had spent the night in the saddle; their cloaks were dirty in places and there were tired shadows on more than one face. All of them wore uniforms of Lake-Town's former guard except for Alfrid, who'd apparently seized the gaudiest set of robes he'd been able to find as long as they were shiny enough. Thranduil would probably have him tossed into the dungeons for crimes against good taste, and order that orange monstrosity burned. 

Bard sighed inwardly. Alfrid definitely was up to something if he wanted to get the jump on them like this. "What do you want, Alfrid?"

"Pleasant as ever, I see," Alfrid said with his best insincere grin on his face. "My apologies, I should have waited until you'd slept off whatever you did this night. We've been hearing all kinds of tales. Doing whatever is needed to keep this shambles of a settlement afloat despite all reason, aren't you? I'd think even your services would be worth more than this."

As bait went it was almost clumsy, though it certainly served to make the Elves up on the wall walkways tense. Bard wasn't entirely sure what their take was on his relations with their king, but since he hadn't found himself with an arrow sticking in his arse yet, he figured there was at least no overt disapproval. 

"I don't have time to squander even if you do," he said firmly. "What do you want? Or are you just here to pay us a visit?"

For a moment Alfrid glared at him, then got his face back under control and straightened in the saddle as much as he dared. He clearly wasn't comfortable on his horse, and the animal didn't seem too pleased with him either. "Important matters deserve my personal attention."

"So we're an important matter? I'm honoured." Bard folded his arms firmly across his chest, raised his chin and fixed Alfrid with the firmest look he could manage. Behind the man he saw Tauriel move slowly until she had them flanked, her hand nonchalantly on her bow. Imrahil, too, watched them from up on the ramparts, exuding the same haughty disdain that usually was a trademark of his father. 

"You don't matter," Alfrid returned, "but your debt to the people of Lake-Town does."

Bard knew where this was going, but decided to play along for now. "What debt? And what people? They live here in Dale."

"Because they have been misguided by you," Alfrid said, his voice pitched close to pity. "Living in ruins, eking out a living from the rocky ground… so different from their old life. Just because you can't let go of your meager power over them."

Eyebrows raised, Bard quenched the beginning anger he felt. He could see all the work they had done in the repaired buildings around the main square, in the house at the corner that sheltered much of their food supplies, in the fountain filled with water from the repaired pipes and wells. "I seem to remember that you tried to make me king just hours after we all lost our homes."

"I can admit to my mistakes," Alrid said loftily. "I thought you could handle it, but when I see this… You're keeping them all in squalor and you're hoarding the gold that could make everybody's life so much easier. All that wealth! If you gave everybody their fair share, nobody would have to starve!"

Around the square people were showing up in twos and threes; word had to be spreading of their uninvited guest. Bard inwardly cursed Alfrid for timing this so that enough would be around to hear what poisoned words he'd come to say. Alfrid had as much charisma as a mouldy cabbage, but he had a way with words that was downright dangerous. 

"We're rebuilding!" Bard reminded him and everybody who was listening. "We're growing food for the coming year, and we're taking up trade. We’ve achieved this for ourselves and with our own hard work. Perhaps because none of us are bandits trying to rob travelers!"

Alfrid drew a sharp breath at that and managed to look immediately offended. "You call us bandits! You've stolen Lake-town's gold! That Dwarf promised that Lake-town would have its share, and where is it? Where's your honour? Did you ever have any? You owe us the gold. Or are you going to let people die for your greed?"

Bard couldn't help but laugh, though there was plenty of bitterness in it after all the years he'd had to deal with the despotism and avarice in Lake-town. "You talk about greed? Well, I guess you know all there's to know about it. What are your plans? Take the gold and run, like you did during the battle?"

"What else was I supposed to do? You failed to defend the people!" Alfrid's horse flinched at his raised voice, and he reined it in ruthlessly. "So many have died because of your incompetence that day!"

The blow struck hard, even when it came from Alfrid. Bard knew that they'd done the best they could have managed during the chaos of that day, but he still saw the lifeless faces of far too many of his people in his mind. Those he'd sent down Old Market Road had died because of his command, even if it had given the old and the children a way out. The guards he'd posted on the section of the wall where the Orcs had broken through, those who had accompanied him onto the field and who hadn't been able to run back to the meagre shelter of the city walls fast enough… He had blood on his hands from that day, he knew that. The last thing he needed was a reminder from a sneaky weasel like Alfrid.

The sneaky weasel in question smirked down at him from his horse. "Nothing to say, eh? Thought so. I'll be kind and let you have an opportunity to fix your blunders."

"How generous. So unlike you." Bard scowled up at him, arms still firmly crossed. "I don't have all day. Say your piece and be gone."

Off to the side of the square, Hilda was gathering people around her and murmuring orders to them that sent them off into the side streets while more and more Elves were taking up position on the ramparts and the rooftops. 

"It's simple enough that even a bargeman like you can understand it. Hand over the gold that belongs to Lake-Town. As the Master, I'll see to it that it's handled properly. You owe us allegiance after all." 

Bard blinked. "Because three random swamp bandits and a few frogs declared you their leader? Those who made it out of Lake-town are here, not down at the shore."

"Precisely." Alfrid rubbed his hands with glee. "I'm the Master of Lake-town. The people of Lake-town, in part, have taken shelter here in Dale. Lake-town is being rebuilt, so it's time for them to return." He paused, a kind smile on his face. "Simple enough for a bargeman?"

"You do realise that they're all able to make their own decisions and that I'm not chaining them to the walls." 

"I'm sure they'll see reason once I speak to them." Alfrid turned around to look at the people, his arms spread wide. "I've come to bring you all home!"

Bard drew a slow breath, aware that the people were now whispering among themselves again. "They don't want to listen to you."

"I thought you aren't making decisions for them?" The smile on Alfrid's face turned into a sneer. "Do try to maintain your opinion. Otherwise, who'd bother listening to you?"

"You'd know everything about that," Bard shot back, but knew he'd been backed into the defensive. The people were sensible, they knew that they had no future down at the lake. But Alfrid, more than the old Master, had managed for years to keep them wrapped in a web of lies, fear and deception. Given half a chance, he'd try again and with some he would succeed, no matter how much they despised him. 

Time to deal with that whole lordship business and make decisions after all. 

"You'll leave," he said firmly, "and you won't come back. You aren't welcome here and we don't owe you allegiance, or anything else for that matter. If those still settling at the lake need assistance with rebuilding, we'll help, but we won't hand over gold." He shook his head. "I've seen you run twice with no regard for anyone or anything but your personal fortune, I'll be damned if I watch you do it a third time."

Alfrid drew himself up straight in the saddle, an impressive feat for someone who seemed to have spent the past years crouching and grovelling. "You'll regret this. You'll beg to join me. And you won't be able to keep me away forever." 

Bard met his eyes, chin held high. "We're certainly going to try, and I fancy our chances are fairly good, and if I have to find a troll and stuff you into its maw myself this time."

"You and your handful of old crones and harlots? They'll beg soon enough to have us protect them, with hardly any men around. The Elves aren't going to stay forever, and what will you do then? Man the walls with children?"

"I wouldn't underestimate my king's loyalties to his allies, if I were you," Imrahil called from where he was standing on the wall, his voice pitched to carry across the square. He looked worryingly gleeful, though to anyone not as used to Elves as Bard was by now, his face probably seemed blank. 

Alfrid scowled up at him, squinting against the rising sun. "Surely Lord Thranduil is far too wise to waste his time on this rabble?"

Bard and Imrahil exchanged a swift glance, and Bard could see the hint of irritation in the Elf's eyes. Behind Alfrid and his men, Tauriel had tensed too and now had an arrow in her hand, not yet nocked but ready to do so in the blink of an eye. 

"You doubt my king's decisions?" Imrahil asked, his tone gentle enough that Bard almost ducked for cover out of sheer conditioning. If he'd learned one thing over the winter, it was that when Imrahil sounded kind, he was up to something. That Elf was far more reassuring when he was his usual cranky self. 

Alfrid bowed his head. "I'm sure the Elvenking had his reasons," he said in the same slimy manner he'd always adopted when cozying up to the Master. "But certainly he won't want to waste his resources on this ragged rabble for longer than absolutely necessary. I offer to take them off his hands, so he won't have to concern himself with them anymore, or leave his warriors here. You must yearn to leave this barren waste and return to your realm?"

Around the square the people were all but bristling now, and in more than one hand was the glint of a weapon. The Elves could be trusted to keep their heads and not act without orders, but Bard wasn't about to bet on his people's ability to do the same. Muttering a curse under his breath, he prepared to step in and order them all to stand down before this could turn ugly.

"The Elves won't leave," Imrahil confirmed his earlier words, a murmur rising from the people at that. "And even if we had to, Lord Bard has another army at his beck and call if needed."

"Old women and children are hardly an army," Alfrid said dismissively.

There was the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of Imrahil's mouth that only served to make him look dangerous. "I'm not talking of them." 

Bard cast him a swift look, received a raised eyebrow in return and didn't bother suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Elves, always good for adding a touch of dramatic flair to a situation. Around the square, the people had clearly settled in for a show by now.

"Stay," Imrahil continued,"and have a closer look at the forces at Lord Bard's command." He gestured at the colonnade just behind them that led to the terrace overlooking most of the valley to the southwest, a far too kind smile now fully on his face. 

Taking a step forward and turning, Bard looked in that direction as well. They hadn't tilled that ground this year, so there'd be nothing to see except grass cropping up around the rocks where it could crack the surface baked by dragonfire. 

Nothing but grass.

And what looked like hundreds of horses and their riders. 

"Why do I keep waking up to armies in my backyard?" he muttered. At his side, Percy snickered. 

Alfrid's companions were beginning to look nervous, an understandable reaction when being faced with Imrahil in a gleeful mood, though Bard was hardly going to sympathise. The only reason he himself wasn't frantically scrambling for the right reaction to an unknown host before his walls was that the Elves were taking it in stride. 

Gathering up his reins so sharply that the horse reared its head with a startled neigh, Alfrid raised a hand and signalled for his men. "We ride, I have far more important matters to attend to," he said. "Your allegiance, bargeman, or you'll regret not taking this chance." 

They wheeled their horses around and were about to ride off when riders came the other way, blocking their path. A handful of Elves rode at the front, but Bard also spotted a few Men among them. For a moment there was chaos in the square, then the two groups sorted themselves and Alfrid and his men rode off, not looking back. 

Movement caught Bard's eye, and when he turned his head he saw Imrahil swiftly descend the steep steps that led down from the ramparts, posture straight and chin raised high, looking every bit the Elvish prince in his polished armour and fine cloak lined with red silk. Belatedly, Bard noticed that he'd definitely dressed up compared to his usual, more mundane outfits. 

"Damn it, Princess, you could have warned me," he muttered, loud enough that Imrahil was bound to catch it. He did, judging by the responding little wave that was the Elvish equivalent of flipping Bard off.

The riders came to a halt in the middle of the square, and while they didn't make any hostile gestures they were clearly ready for just about anything. They also kept a clear distance between themselves and Alfrid's group, which earned them plenty of goodwill in Bard's eyes already. 

"Imrahil, well met," one of the Elves called out. She wore the usual tunic and breeches that the Elves favored when they weren't being fancy, her dark hair tied back in sensible braids. Nothing marked her as special, but the Elves up on the walls were suddenly paying quite a lot of attention to her for just a regular traveler. 

Bard took a closer look. Blinked. Then looked at Imrahil, and back at her. Then he heaved a sigh. 

"Wonderful," he said to no-one in particular. "Two of them."

***

It took a while to get the main hall in Bard's home empty of anyone who was there just because they'd remembered something urgent they needed to do there, but eventually he had the crowd pared down to a reasonable size. A few Elves, a handful of what had turned out to be Rohirrim of all people, and Bard's personal moral support consisting of Percy, Bain and Sigrid. Only Tilda was missing, but she’d scampered off to have a look at the horses rather than be stuck in whatever this talk was going to be, not that Bard could blame her. They all shared a drink to affirm the offered hospitality - though Bard made sure it was ale, not wine, so the Elves would know he wasn't happy with the situation - and then got down to business. 

"It's quite simple," the new Elf - Amathiel, because of course she had to be Imrahil's sister, as if Bard weren't suffering enough from one of Thranduil's offspring these days - insisted. He'd have figured out that particular relationship even without an explanation; she certainly took after her brother in far too many ways. "We happened to come by, and it was suggested that Dale might be receptive to the idea of harbouring a company of Rohirrim."

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. "Suggested," he repeated. 

"By Lord Thranduil," she added helpfully. "I asked for advice and he mentioned Dale and your current situation."

Bard really needed to speak to his esteemed Elvenking about surprising other people with armies on their doorstep. "So why are they even here? The last time I looked, Rohan was quite some distance from us. What is it, five hundred miles? You're not going to convince me that you happened to come by our gates coincidentally."

One of the Rohirrim at the table leaned forward, a boy of perhaps Bain's age, if not younger. That they'd let him speak was surprising, but none of the other Rohirrim made a move to stop him. "It was not done on purpose," he said quietly and did his best to hold Bard's gaze. "We were at the Limlight when warg riders attacked and we could only escape northwards. They followed us for almost two weeks and we couldn't shake them, so we had to take the Old Forest Road and turning around wasn't possible anymore. We met the Lady Amathiel there."

Imrahil turned towards his sister. "On the way back from Mithlond? You could have taken the northern road, it would have been faster than going down the Anduin."

"I decided that we would winter in Imladris." Her expression dared him to question that, and he leaned back in his chair with a frown on his face. 

Bard firmly ignored that bit of family tension and instead focused on the little Rohir in front of him, who was doing his best to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. "What happened then?" 

"We crossed the forest as fast as we could. There were spiders big as horses, I didn't know those even exist! And the wargs followed us too, but we and the Elves fought them off until they gave up. I wanted to turn back then but it wasn't safe and I didn't know what else to do. So when the Lady Amathiel said she knew about a place where we could be safe, we followed her." He paused, looking far too young to be the spokesman of his people. "I'm sorry if we were mistaken. We can leave again, we just need a few days to rest the horses."

Too much, too fast; Bard couldn't make any decisions on so little to go by. Thranduil apparently thought it a good idea to let them stay, irritating as it was to have the Elf present him with that fact without even consulting with him first. But this wasn't about sheltering a few travelers, this was a matter of permitting a few hundred armed warriors into the city, almost as many as Bard's own people. 

"You'll have those days to rest," he said, trying to hit a calm tone of voice. "Anything beyond that… I have questions that need answers first."

The boy nodded swiftly, strands of straw blond hair flying. "I'll be honest and honourable and won’t lie."

It was hard not to smile. "Good. What is your name, first of all, since I take it I'll be speaking with you about this?" None of the other Rohirrim had even tried to talk; they seemed to be here as either guards or supporters of their young leader. 

"Léored son of Léoric," the boy told him. 

Bard nodded, pausing to find the right words for the question he suspected he knew the answer to already. "And your father has been the leader of your men before you?"

Léored squared his shoulders and visibly braced himself, hands curled to fists on the table. "He was King Fengel's marshal in the Wold. He was the bravest man I've ever known and he tried to defend us, but the king wouldn't send more riders and there were more and more Orcs. And then the king ordered all riders to come south to the Entwash and there wouldn't have been anyone left to keep the homesteads in the Wold safe, so Father didn't leave." He paused to draw a shaky breath, but kept his voice level. "In spring there were so many Orcs that we had to gather the people together to protect them, but without help from King Fengel it wasn't enough so we tried to stay by the Limlight because that's defensible." 

"What happened then?" Bard prompted gently when Léored fell silent. 

"We had messengers from the king that told us we're exiled because we disobeyed him. Father tried to reason with them but it didn't help, and then there was another attack from Orcs, more than ever before and he-" Swallowing, Léored closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm his only son, I've fought in battle and I’ve been blooded," he went on, determined despite the way his voice was now wavering. "I've seen fourteen winters, I'm old enough to lead."

One year younger than Bain. Bard fought the urge to turn to his son and draw him close. He knew that Bain was well on his way of becoming a man, and that he hadn't been a child ever since the night when they'd faced down the dragon together. But the thought of abandoning him with the responsibility of protecting and leading so many people made his heart ache in his chest. 

"Your father must have been an honourable man," he offered. "Not many would have disobeyed their king to fight for their people like this." 

Léored shot him a grateful smile, his eyes bright. 

"You're all banished?" Bard went on. 

"All the men who can hold a sword and spear. And there was no way we could leave the others behind, they'd have been slaughtered." Léored glanced at his companions, then back at Bard. "We cannot go back, not while King Fengel calls us banished. And even his heir is in exile now, but we can't appeal to him. He's in Gondor."

Bard leaned back in his chair to consider this. For almost a decade there had been rumours up and down the River Running about trouble in Rohan because of the king being unreasonable, but nobody had paid them much heed. That realm had been too distant to matter in their lives, or at least they'd thought so at the time. "How many of your people are there?"

"Almost two hundred men, and around a hundred women and children." Léored toyed with the cup of ale before him for a moment, then straightened again and raised his head. "We can fight for you if you'll just let us stay. We all have our horses and our battle gear, we're trained, I'll learn how to lead them in battle, just… please." He dropped his gaze again. "I don't know what else to do."

It was hard not to reach out and try to calm the boy with a pat to the shoulder, but Bard stayed in his seat. Léored had a hard enough time presenting a brave face, it was only fair to play along with it and pretend not to see the tears in the corners of his eyes, or that he couldn't draw proper deep breaths anymore from all the tension in his neck and shoulders. Best to let him be strong in front of his people and all these strangers, and not humiliate him with kindness. 

"I think you've shown much bravery, and have led your people well," he said instead. "There must be many tales to tell, and perhaps you can share some of them with us tonight. Bring your people into the city for now. There's no point in you camping in the fields when you can be safe behind our walls, and I daresay you can use a night without looking over your shoulders."

Perhaps it wasn't entirely wise to extend so much trust to them, but it was hard not to be sympathetic when Bard still remembered the overwhelming relief he'd felt when the Elves had come to their aid after the destruction of Lake-town. He still had a debt to pay for that help, no matter what Thranduil might say about the issue, and offering shelter to these exiles seemed like a good beginning. 

"That is… You're very generous." The relief was plain in Léored's voice and on his face, and his companions too looked a lot more at ease. "I don't know if thank you is enough."

Bard chuckled at the memory of his own stumbled thanks it brought up. "Let's leave it at that until you have my answer. Bring your people inside the walls, and there should be enough room for the horses in the lower city too, we've repaired quite a lot of the old stables." Leaning forward, he looked down the table to Bain. "Find Hilda and ask her to make sure our guests have what they need," he told him, then turned back to Léored. "My son will show you where to go, just follow his lead."

He could just have asked Hilda directly to handle it all, but it would be good practice for Bain, and Léored might appreciate dealing with someone closer to his own age. It would also show that Bard considered his guests important enough to warrant the personal attention of his son and heir, which admittedly wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd have to consider in his life. 

Speaking of matters to consider… Once the Rohirrim had followed Bain outside, Bard turned to Sigrid. "I need you to ride over to the Dwarves," he told her. "Someone needs to tell Dáin that we're not planning an invasion, I've got no idea what he thinks we're up to and the Dwarves must have spotted our guests by now."

Sigrid nodded. "What do I tell him?" she asked, rising from her chair and smoothing her skirt with a practiced motion. A normal messenger might not be enough, but sending her hopefully would demonstrate that Dale was taking this seriously. "Should I say that they've asked for shelter?"

"Yes, and that I'll talk to him before I make any decisions about it. We can't ignore him in this." Running a hand over his face, Bard took a precious moment to close his eyes and just breathed, then shook his head and focused on the matters at hand again. "Tauriel, please accompany her, someone needs to make sure she is protected. I don't think the Rohirrim would get up to anything, but Alfrid might still be lurking."

Tauriel rose as well. "What should I do if we encounter him?" 

Bard shrugged. "Damned if I know," he admitted. "But if you happen to accidentally hit him with an arrow…"

"If I hit someone, it's on purpose," Tauriel said, then grinned for the first time Bard could remember. "But I can make it look like an accident if you want me to."

"Don't tempt me, we probably shouldn't antagonise him any further and sticking an arrow in his arse won't help with that. Just go and let Dáin know we aren't planning an invasion." Bard paused. "Which would be stupid on horseback anyway, it's not like we couldn't simply walk over to their gates, and horses wouldn't be much of a help on those polished stone floors inside the Mountain." 

"I'll make sure to point that out to him," Sigrid told him with a quick smile and left, Tauriel in tow. 

That left Bard with only Percy and the two Elves, which was not the kind of company Bard would have voluntarily chosen. Percy was fine, he was turning out to be more than capable second-in-command, but Imrahil and his sister were another matter entirely. They hadn't even touched their ale, for one thing, and at least Imrahil ought to know better by now.

"You're involving the Dwarves?" Amathiel demanded to know. "What right do those little dirt grubbers have to speak in this matter?"

"A lot more right than you do, I should say." Bard didn't bother glaring at her; that rarely worked on most Elves, so it was simply a wasted effort. "Imrahil, does she speak for your father or do you? Because there are a few official matters that need to be said. I'll send a bird later, but I want his representative here to hear them." 

Imrahil gave him his best haughty glower, diminished a little by the fact the sun was shining in his face from the window behind Bard. The kind thing would have been to move; Bard didn't suggest it. 

"I still speak for him," Imrahil said. "But the Lady Amathiel will listen as well."

"The Rohirrim need someone to stand for them," she agreed.

Bard shook his head at that. "In that case I'll get back Léored, he looks like he'd handle himself reasonably well. He certainly doesn't need bloody Elves to meddle in his name."

"But-"

"Are you a Rohir?" Bard interrupted. "You don't look like one, you lack a beard for one thing. I'm not going to exploit their situation and I won't make decisions without talking to them first, but they need to deal with this themselves."

She shot him a belligerent look. "Then why aren't any of them here?"

"Because I want to get a few facts straight with you first, and I doubt you want to discuss that in front of the Rohirrim and the Dwarves. They wouldn't be impressed with you." At the next opportunity, Bard was going to have to ask Thranduil not to let any more of his children pay surprise visits to Dale. "How much of this was Lord Thranduil's idea? I refuse to believe that you came up with the plan yourself."

Amathiel looked a little taken aback at the question. Well, she'd just have to get used to that; her brother had managed just fine and was only looking indignant occasionally these days. "Dale is the nearest settlement from the spot where the Old Road leaves the forest."

"It's also a settlement that's still rebuilding and doesn't have a lot to spare in terms of resources," Bard said. "You could have taken them south along the River Running. Plenty of little villages to get supplies from on the way and in ten days you'd have reached Dorwinion. Which, unless something's changed very recently, is being run by your brother and would have a much easier time when it comes to harbouring a few hundred refugees. Was that thought too complicated for your pretty head?" 

Her expression turned mulish. "I stand by my decision."

"Well, it's a stupid decision if you made it on distance alone," Bard told her. "Before we discuss anything else, I need one answer from you. Do you trust them?"

His gut was telling him that Léored's explanation had been true and that there were no sinister reasons behind the Rohirrim's arrival, but he wasn't going to stake the safety of Dale on that alone. But one thing he'd learned over the winter was that Elves were pretty good at sniffing out deceptions. 

Amathiel sat up straight, folded hands primly resting before her on the table. "I trust them and I vouch for them. There've been reports of the chaos in Rohan for years now, and I've met travellers in Imladris this winter who confirmed that the situation has been getting worse. They are not lying about their reasons for fleeing and they wish only for a safe place to stay until they can return to their homes."

Bard heaved a sigh. A king should know better than to make his own people run for their lives. He might not know much about leadership, but he knew that much. "Listen, Princess-"

"Don't call me that."

Imrahil sighed. "He means me, he believes he is being amusing about it."

Amathiel's eyebrows rose in clear expression of what she thought of that. 

"Listen, Princess," Bard said again, "I know Lord Thranduil has had a hand in this, and I bet I can guess at his reasoning. I don't necessarily disagree with him, but I can't let him make these decisions for us if I want Dale to be able to stand on her own feet anytime soon. So here's what we're going to do. Pay attention."

Imrahil was clearly plotting murder, but managed a terse nod. 

"I'll offer the Rohirrim asylum in Dale as long as they manage to behave themselves, but I can only do that under a few conditions. Percy, how are our supplies looking?"

Percy cleared his throat. "No way we can keep them and us fed until the harvest. Two thirds of the way, yes, but we'll run out a good month too early even if we start hunting a lot more than we do now." 

That matched Bard's own estimations, but Percy and Hilda were the one who kept track of their stocks and would know for certain. "What about after the harvest?"

That earned him a laugh. "Damned if I know. I'm as much of a farmer as you are. The Dwarves think there'll be a surplus, but they've got contracts on that so we can't hold it back. If anyone's going to explain to Dáin that we're reneging on that agreement, it's not going to be me. I like my knees where they are."

Bard nodded. Contracts with the Dwarves weren't something to be ignored easily, he'd learned as much by now. It made Thorin's refusal to honour his promise even harder to understand. "Not going to risk my own knees either, so we're not touching that. Which leaves us with only one real option here unless someone along the River Running turns out to have lots and lots of grain for sale, and I'm sure we'd have heard of that." He returned his attention to the two Elves. "That brings me to your part in this. You want me to feed and shelter the Rohirrim? I don't have a problem with the shelter part of that idea, but you're going to tell Lord Thranduil that he'll have to handle the feeding side of things."

Amathiel frowned at him. "That is not our responsibility."

He frowned right back at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her look away. "You drag three hundred people to my doorstep, you don't get to abandon them. Supplies to get them at least through the next winter, we may be able to purchase some of what we need once the harvest season starts downriver but it won't cover everything." Bard leaned back in his chair, arms placed firmly on the arm rests. He doubted he struck nearly as impressive a figure as Thranduil managed with considerably less conscious effort, but he might as well practice a little. "Possibly hay for the horses, I've got no idea how much they need or what they eat. If the Woodland Realm agrees to that, the Rohirrim can stay. Otherwise you can rally them in a few days and taken them downriver, I'm sure your brother will be happy to see you." He glanced at Percy. "Do we need to settle anything else?"

Percy thought for a moment. "Wood for timber and fuel," he said eventually. "We don't really have much to spare and if we keep all those horses around I imagine we'll need a fence or something. Or do they just roam free? Better ask the little lord about that, but we'd better stock up." 

Bard nodded and gave Imrahil a bright smile. "There you have it, simple as you please. You get me supplies to keep the Rohirrim and their horses fed until spring, and whatever timber is needed to make sure the horses don't make a run for it the first time they hear the horns of the Lonely Mountain. If I get Lord Thranduil's agreement on that, the Rohirrim can stay provided Lord Dáin doesn't have objections that can't be dealt with."

"You would do well to remember who helped you and your people," Imrahil growled. 

Bard's eyes narrowed. "I remember that very well. It's why I'm not sending Léored and his people away when that would be much easier. But I've got a responsibility towards my own city, and it won't help anyone if we overtax our supplies. There's no point in us all starving together. You want them to stay here, those are the terms."

Imrahil and Amathiel exchanged a brief glance, and Bard magnanimously pretended not to see the rolled eyes. 

"Does he talk to Ada like that as well?" Amathiel asked.

"He's most disrespectful."

She shook her head. "Who'd have thought that would catch his attention." Rising from her chair, she gave Bard the briefest of nods. "We'll inform the king of your demands." 

Imrahil stood as well and wordlessly followed his sister, still scowling. Looking after them, Bard was just beginning to relax when suddenly a knife thudded into the back of his chair, a hand's width from his head. 

"Still not careful enough," Imrahil muttered, then stalked out without another word, the door falling shut behind him. 

Percy looked at the still shivering blade, then at Bard. "Do they take after Lord Thranduil?" he asked.

Bard shrugged and reached up to yank the knife out of the wood. "In some ways." 

Chuckling, Percy shook his head. "Then you've got balls to be shagging him."

***

Efficient as ever, Hilda had the Rohirrim distributed across the households in Dale well before nightfall, settling them in twos and threes with anyone who had room to spare. 

"It's the easiest way to handle this," she explained when Bard asked about it. "We could put them into what buildings are repaired in the lower city, but there's nothing in there, not even something as simple as chairs. For now it's much simpler this way, we won't need to gather and redistribute bedding or anything. Besides, they look too tired to bother with hearth fires and fetching water. We’ll sort out the families tomorrow so they can stay together."

Since that sounded logical and he'd long learned not to disagree with Hilda unless he truly doubted her opinion, Bard just nodded. "Is there enough space for everyone?"

"In some cases it's a tight fit, but we'll sort that out. They're going to stay, aren't they?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say yet, it depends on whether the Elves supply us." 

Her smile turned into something slightly worrying. "Surely you of all people have the means to convince them?"

Bard heaved a sigh. "Is there anyone who doesn't think I'm bedding the Elvenking?"

Hilda reached up to pat his shoulder. "If you don't want people to know, be quieter," she told him with a grin that was now bordering on a leer. "And in the meantime use your wiles to talk him into extra supplies. Tell him we could also use fabric for clothes if they've got some to spare."

"I'll try to fit that in between any other activities," Bard said dryly, then beat a rather hasty retreat before she could make suggestions. It was unnerving enough to know that plenty of people were aware of what was going on between him and Thranduil, he didn't need the added confusion of receiving suggestions on how to make the Elf more amenable to requests. 

Bard ended up hosting a representative gathering of Dale’s inhabitants, Rohirrim and Elves in his home that evening that didn't quite qualify as a feast but turned into more than just a shared meal when Dáin and a few of his advisors chose to join them. Their arrival wasn't entirely unexpected; they clearly wanted to get an idea of just what was going on in Dale and what action would be required. Since they also brought a fresh cask of ale along, Bard wasn't going to complain. 

"Your daughter says that they've all been exiled," Dáin began as they sat together at the head of the long table with only Balin within easy earshot. "Do you know why?"

Bard considered his answer. "Only that they defied orders of their king that they thought they couldn't obey without letting harm come to their people," he said. "I believe them, they could have come up with a much better story if they were lying." He didn't mention that he also trusted the Elves to know whether they were being told the truth; no need to annoy Dáin and waste time with insults.

"It would match with what we've heard out of Rohan of late," Dáin agreed. "Still, try to find out more if you can."

"I will, but they've just lost their leader so it's not an easy topic to broach." 

Dáin huffed in what Bard took as agreement. "Who leads them now?" the Dwarf asked.

"Léored, his son," Bard said, pointing the boy out in the crowd. 

Another huff, this time sounding much more like a sigh. "Not even old enough to grow a beard yet. It's never good when heirs are too young, they usually have to wield an axe too heavy for them when the situation is dire. Well, we'll see whether he can handle it or topples over." 

Bard glanced at him. "So you're not objecting if I intend to offer them asylum?"

Dáin's look was far too shrewd. "Our kin in the Misty Mountains has good dealings with the Rohirrim, so I've got little reason to mind as long as their presence here won't affect us. They're generally too straightforward to bother with deceptions. And the Lady Sigrid has assured us that our contracts will remain unchanged."

"I've already asked whether the Elves would be willing to supply what is needed." 

"So what did the forest pixie have to say to that?"

Thranduil's reply had come within hours of Bard's request, far too quickly for Bard's bird to have even reached the Elvenking's halls, let alone for the other bird to make its way back. It had only confirmed his already fairly solid suspicion that Amathiel hadn't come up with the entire plan by herself. It also made him feel more confident that he wasn't putting his own people in danger by allowing strangers into their midst. 

"They're willing to cover what's needed until the next harvest, which would solve the main problem I see with permitting them to stay." With a smile Bard looked up when Sigrid came by with a pitcher to refill their cups and covered his own with his hand when she offered to pour. 

"I've offered Léored to stay with us, for tonight at least," she told him, leaning forward across the table so she wouldn't have to raise her voice. Dáin would hear, but that didn't seem to concern her. "He's accepted, I think he's glad to get away from being constantly watched, even if it's just for a night."

Bard frowned as he considered that bit of news. "He's welcome, but is it wise? He's their leader, shouldn't he be with them?"

Sigrid topped off Dáin's cup and set it down carefully, receiving a murmur of thanks from the Dwarf. "They'll know where he is, and I imagine he hasn't had a moment to himself since his father was killed," she said simply, then moved on. 

They watched her exchange a few words with Balin, followed by laughter and a playful curtsey from Sigrid. Balin gave her a properly serious and dignified bow of his head in return, though his smile was barely hidden by his beard. 

"If the Elves cover the cost in supplies, I don't see why the Rohirrim shouldn't stay," Dáin said eventually. "Cavalry's useful, after all. As long as it's understood that they're answering to you and not the frilly-headed woodland sprite." 

"As long as they stay in Dale, they'd better answer to me, anything else just wouldn't be workable." It was a good thing Lake-town had already been a melting pot of sorts, with settlers from all along the River Running and far from the south and east living in the town and mingling with those whose families had lived there for generations. Otherwise sharing their city with Elves and now Rohirrim, and having Dwarves on their doorstep, would be a recipe for disaster. As it was, Bard felt reasonably optimistic that they'd manage without major disagreements. They'd certainly adjusted to the Elves already, if the growing number of shared households was any indication.

"In that case congratulations to increasing your population," Dáin told him with a slap to his shoulder. "And tell their young lord to come and visit me in Erebor in a few days, we'd best keep it all formal and official with the welcoming."

They drifted off to less important matters from that point on, and the gathering wound down not too long after nightfall. With the moon shining brightly enough to allow for a safe journey, the Dwarves declined Bard's offer to stay for the night and he was eventually left alone in the hall after the last guests had left. 

He took a moment to tidy away some cups, though he risked a scolding from Hilda and her frightfully efficient group of helpers who'd somehow commandeered his housekeeping chores a few weeks ago. Sigrid was the only one who got away with cleaning and tidying these days because she was thorough enough that standards were being met. Bard's efforts had been deemed hopeless, which now only served as an incentive to be sneaky about it. It wasn't as though he could do any damage by stacking plates and putting chairs back into order around the large table. They had gravitated towards holding meetings of what he refused to call Dale's council here until the roof of the Great Hall could be re-tiled, and he might as well clear the table before they started laying out maps and papers tomorrow morning. 

By the time he'd neatly stacked all cups and plates and then wiped down the table, Bard felt accomplished enough to head upstairs, careful to be quiet. His children would be asleep already, and even if they no longer all shared a room he wasn't about to wake them with carelessly loud steps. 

He paused when he noticed that the door to the spare room wasn't drawn entirely shut. Traces of faint lamplight spilled into the hallway, just enough to draw attention to the quiet voices from within. 

"It's going to be all right, you'll see," he heard Bain say. "The first few weeks were hard but you get used to it, and then it's fine. Before the winter I thought I'd never like it here. Now it's home, even when it's different." 

"I don't know if we'll be allowed to stay," a second young voice that had to be Léored's responded. "The Lady Amathiel didn't know when I asked her, and your father and King Dáin talked all evening so I couldn't interrupt. The Dwarves didn't look happy."

"They always look a bit grumpy, that's normal." Bain was clearly aiming for reassurance. "My father's going to tell you as soon as he knows, he wouldn't draw it out. He's been in your shoes, he knows what it's like."

Bard had meant to inform Léored and his Rohirrim in the morning once everybody had had a decent night's sleep, but he should have known it wasn't the right choice. Thranduil had never left him waiting in those early days, though circumstances had been somewhat different. Back then, the uncertainty had stemmed from not knowing what the Dwarves would do and there had been no way to resolve it. But there was no point in leaving their new allies hanging by not even telling them yet that they were invited to become allies in the first place.

"If we can't stay here, I don't know what to do," Léored admitted. "But I've got to know. Father always said I must be ready to make decisions."

"You'll figure it out," Bain said, but sounded somewhat helpless. And really, it shouldn't be his task to deal with this. 

Bard gathered himself, then lightly rapped his knuckles against the door before stepping inside the room. The two boys were seated on the bed, Bain on top of the covers, his back against the wall at the foot end while Léored sat with the blanket drawn around him. 

"Still awake?" Bard asked, mostly to give their guest a moment to figure out what to make of the situation. 

Bain shrugged. "I thought I'd keep Léored company for a little while, we weren't tired yet. I've been telling him about Dale."

And trying to distract him from his worries, if the boy's red eyes were any indication, but Bard didn't mention that. No point in drawing attention to something that might be a cause for wounded pride on top of everything else. He briefly caught Bain's eyes, cast him a swift smile and a nod that were returned along with a quick glance at Léored and a questioningly raised eyebrow. 

"Dáin and I talked," Bard said and immediately had the full attention of his son and their guest. "I thought I'd tell you tomorrow, but since you're still awake… I welcome you and your people to Dale and offer you a home here, for as long as you need it." 

Léored rapidly blinked a few times. "My Lord…"

Bard waved his hand dismissively. "Don't, or I'll have to call you Lord Léored as well and that's just too much of a mouthful for both of us. We'll need to discuss the details tomorrow, but on the whole it's settled, with agreement from King Dáin and King Thranduil." He gave Leored a lopsided grin. "Welcome to Dale. I hope you know how to handle a hammer."

***

The Rohirrim settled in with considerably more ease than Bard had expected. They seemed happy enough to have a roof over their heads, warm food in their bellies and meadows to graze their horses and, a few disagreements aside, didn't cause much irritation among Dale's residents. It helped that the women among them quickly found plenty of common ground with the women of Dale, so the warriors had little choice but to follow along. They, in turn, were greeted with quite some enthusiasm by the Elves who now had more replacements for their guard rotations. 

By the time midsummer came around, they had all figured out where adjustments to routines were needed and how they could redistribute duties, so Bard cautiously called it a success. In his own household he could see it working on a smaller scale; Leored was still staying with them and had found himself well-accepted by Bard’s children. Tilda in particular was entirely smitten, though Bard suspected it might have something to do with Leored’s affinity for horses.

Dale continued to thrive as much as it was possible under the circumstances. They’d signed contracts with the Dwarves about co-operation and a share of the harvest, to be re-negotiated in the following year. The fields were turning out well, the construction work was coming along and they'd even begun to resume handling transports for the Woodland Realm again, though everybody knew Thranduil was essentially humouring them in that regard. The Elvenking pretended to require their services, Bard pretended to be able to provide them in sufficient amounts, and everybody pretended that there was no reason whatsoever to question the Elves' sanity at striking such a deal. 

Apparently that fell under the guise of diplomacy. Bard had eventually decided that the main skill in that area was a capacity of smiling brightly and acting as though everything was wonderful while not letting anyone notice just how weird he thought a situation was. 

Naked Elves in the laundry fountain once again? Go to Imrahil and make a polite suggestion about how now that the River Running might make a refreshing alternative and cause fewer irate women to show up on Bard's doorstep. 

"It's not that anyone minds the view," Hilda told him when she'd had to come and see him again about it, "but if they don't stop nicking the laundry soap, there's going to be an incident."

Riders of Rohan who insisted on keeping their horses with them in their homes because it was traditional? Talk to Léored about how that left the neighbours in deep consternation, then send Amathiel to handle the slightly embarrassing part of convincing people not to snuggle up to their horses during the night. The look she gave Bard at that particular request was downright incredulous, but he pretended not to see it. She’d wanted to be their liaison, so this came with the territory.

Unexpected Dwarves in someone's basement? Talk to Dáin, tell him that the efforts of his Dwarves were highly appreciated, and request that their formidable skills be directed at central projects like the public baths. Which had the added benefit of redirecting the hordes of nude Elves and making all laundry workers happy, though it did almost cause a small skirmish when Elves and Dwarves were suddenly faced with each other's presence, the former in a rather unarmed and unclothed state. 

Bard felt quite accomplished for preventing that from turning into an incident, though he didn't want to imagine what tales were now told in the Lonely Mountain about Elvish shenanigans. One more reason for a celebration to see whether at least some of that tension couldn't be settled. There was no way Dale could last for long if their two most powerful neighbours were constantly bristling at each other.

The Elves celebrated midsummer, just like the people of Dale did. When it turned out that they even shared some of the more ridiculous traditions with the Rohirrim, Bard figured that a festival of sorts couldn't hurt. At the very least, getting drunk together might turn into a bonding experience as long as everybody remembered not to try and keep pace with the Elves. Or the Dwarves, who didn't celebrate the solstice but weren't about to say no to a feast. Invite their respective kings and Bard might just be able to call it a proper diplomatic meeting. Especially if he managed to convince the Dwarves to share their ale, since Dale didn’t have the resources yet to set up breweries.

"I still fail to see why you would be displeased at being handed a few hundred riders," Thranduil told him as they watched the crowd in the main square from their table up on the dais in front of the Great Hall. "Cavalry is hard to come by."

"You try waking up to a surprise visit by an army that isn't your own," Bard grumbled. He’d voiced his displeasure in bird-delivered messages, but this was the first time he could complain to Thranduil’s face.

They hadn't really had an opportunity yet to speak in private; the Elvenking had only arrived a few hours ago and his time had been taken up by the Elves stationed in Dale until it was time to begin the feast. Then there had been plenty of people who'd wanted to speak to either or both of them, speeches had to be given and listened to, and by the time neither of them was in demand, the sun was already about to set. Around the square, lamps and torches were being lit; together with the fire in the center, the light would be enough to give everybody an excuse to keep on celebrating well into the night.

"You woke up to my army once, and I didn't hear you complain then," Thranduil pointed out. To honour the occasion, cornflowers and marigold were threaded into his crown, the blue and yellow flowers echoed in the embroidered patterns on his fine robes. It should have looked ridiculous - and would have, on anyone else - but Bard was ready to admit, at least to himself, that the sight was quite impressive.

"I was desperate that morning and hadn't had much sleep, so my reaction was sluggish," he returned. "Also, I was probably concussed from getting knocked off a sodding belltower by a dragon."

Thranduil's raised eyebrow clearly said that the excuse wouldn't be accepted. "How fortunate for you that circumstances were much kinder this time."

"Next time, warn me beforehand. Actually, no, there isn't going to be a next time. You want to send me an army, you ask." Nobody was looking at them right now, so Bard risked a glare at him that wouldn't send ten people into a worried frenzy that their leaders weren't getting along. "You knew they were on the way."

The expression on Thranduil's face was one of polite innocence. "I was as surprised as you were."

"You told Amathiel to bring them here, don't think I haven't figured that out." Bard looked across the square at said Elf, who was standing to the side of the main fire, chatting with a few of the Rohirrim. Imrahil was with her, looking cranky as always. The delicate wreath of flowers in his dark hair didn't do much to improve the overall air of irritation he radiated, though it emphasised how much he resembled his sister.

"I merely made a suggestion that I believed to be in everyone's best interest," Thranduil said, following the direction of his gaze. 

Bard snorted. "You meddled, call it what it was."

"Elves don't meddle."

"Tell that to the three hundred Rohirrim who're now calling my city their home. Worse than the wizard, I swear. He at least was fairly upfront with what he wanted."

Thranduil looked mildly offended at being compared to Gandalf. "Mithrandir would have ridden at their head and demanded that you take them in, then he'd have left before you could have asked him why." 

"Instead you had your daughter bring them to our gates and demand that we take them in. She hasn't left yet, but that hasn't necessarily made it simpler. So far she hasn’t figured out that if she wants something, she needs to take on the work and responsibility, too." Bard shook his head and had a sip of well-watered wine, a precaution since it probably wouldn't look too good if the Lord of Dale was drunk at his own feast. "Are you going to inflict any more of your children on me?"

"Calemir isn't about to leave Dorwinion just to pay you a visit, and the last I heard, Legolas was travelling on the other side of the Misty Mountains." A wistful shadow crossed Thranduil's face, but it was gone before Bard could truly read it. "You'll only have Imrahil to contend with. I imagine Amathiel intends to journey to Mithlond again before winter with those of my people who wish to sail into the West this year."

By now Bard knew how delicate that topic was for most Elves, so he didn't ask any of the questions that crossed his mind at the mention of the West. Not many of the Wood-elves saw a need to leave, he had been told that much from Tauriel, but there was a slow but steady trickle. 

"And on the way back she collects random warriors?" he asked, steering them away from a potentially sad topic. Today wasn't the time for that. "Though it doesn't seem like she does it too often, she was clumsy enough about it that even I caught on."

"I would not diminish your talents like that, if I were you," Thranduil told him with faint amusement in his voice. "But I agree that she should have been more circumspect. A lesson to be learned in her future."

Breaking off her discussion, Amathiel turned to look at the two of them as if she knew she was their topic of discussion. Perhaps she did; Bard wasn’t quite certain yet just how good Elven ears were. A nod to the Rohirrim and her brother, then she made her way past a few cheerful dancing couples to come and stand before them. 

“My Lords,” she said with the barest of bows of her head. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bard saw Thranduil’s eyebrow twitch up. “So formal, daughter mine?”

“Is this not a formal occasion?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint expectations.”

Thranduil straightened minutely in his seat, enough to shift from relaxed to regal and make the chair appear like a throne. “And what expectations would those be?”

She looked uncertain for an instant, just long enough for Bard to catch. Then her jaw took on the same stubborn set he already knew only too well from her father. “As the Rohirrim’s patron, I must be ready to appropriately represent them.”

“Then I must have been mistaken today when Lord Leored was introduced to me as the one I’d be negotiating what treaties might be required between our people,” Thranduil said smoothly. His tone was almost kind, but it carried a warning that Amathiel clearly didn’t miss if her suddenly stiff posture was any indication. Bard almost pitied her. Almost.

“We’ll clear up this confusion,” she said.

Thranduil nodded. “See that you do. And, Amathiel?”

She tilted her head and waited. 

“I am glad to see you safely returned.” It was said with enough honesty to make Bard lose some of the tension he hadn’t been aware had settled upon him. He knew that Thranduil cared about his children, just as Bard did about his own, but the constraints of courtly formality had obviously left their traces. 

Amathiel bowed her head again, the gesture more sincere somehow this time. “As I am to be back, Ada.” 

Thranduil said something in Sindarin that was too quick for Bard to catch but made Amathiel give him a fleeting smile before she took her leave of them again, collecting two cups of wine as she made her way back to her brother.

Once she was gone, Thranduil shook his head. “I do admire her tenacity,” he said fondly. “Even though she’s chosen a formal position that isn’t her own and has yet to realise it. I trust you won’t let her get away with it.”

Bard rolled his eyes. "Are you making her practice on me?" 

"She wishes to join my council, but so far she hasn't shown herself quite capable enough." Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee, catching Bard's attention for a moment when the supple leather of his high boots showed off his calves so fabulously. "If it had been me in her stead, you would have been convinced that permitting the Rohirrim to stay was your own idea all along."

"Don't make me question my decisions over the last months," Bard grumbled. 

Thranduil gave an elegant shrug, the finely embroidered fabric of his robes shifting around him. "I have nothing to prove and no need to manipulate you. Amathiel will learn her lesson, and until then she'll watch my council's sessions from the sidelines."

Down in the square, a group of Rohirrim borrowed flutes and a small lyre from the Elves and struck up a melody their people clearly recognised after the first few moments; they sang along in their own language, cheerfully clapping their hands and stomping their feet. A few Dwarves and people of Dale joined in the clapping eventually, even if not the singing. By the time the second repeat of the song came around, to much applause, everybody had mastered at least the chorus, and even a few fearless Elves had joined in. Imrahil was looking like he was developing a headache, while Thranduil's expression didn't waver from stoic haughtiness, though Bard saw him hide a smile behind his cup of wine. 

The instruments were passed on to a few Dwarves next - which made the Elvish owners bristle visibly, though they didn't interfere - and the music shifted to a rowdier song that wouldn't have been out of place in Lake-town's shadier taverns. A grin on his face, Bard clapped along to Bofur's performance when the Dwarf climbed one of the tables to the sound of cat-calls, and sang about the Man in the Moon without caring one whit when the Dwarf part of the audience began pelting him with bread crusts. 

When a handful of Dale’s inhabitants took over the musicians' place, Bard only needed to see the pleading look from Tilda to to get up from his chair and draw her into the swiftly growing group of dancers. Her hands tightly held on to his as they settled into the steps, slow at first and then gradually picking up speed along with the music. Bain and Sigrid swung by too, bright smiles on their faces before they vanished again in the crowd. 

"Too fast!" Tilda shouted with a laugh and Bard stopped to let her find her footing again so she could try anew once the rhythm slowed a little. She'd be practicing for the next few days, he knew, and drag whoever she could find along with her until she'd be able to do the steps no matter how fast the tune was. Lake-town's entertainment had never been sophisticated and instead much more about just going with the flow and showing off a little, which suited them all just fine. It certainly was much more fun this way, even when it was difficult to laugh and keep in step at the same time. 

Tilda valiantly tried to keep up with him, but almost forty years of practice and muscle memory won out over youthful enthusiasm. Bard eventually just picked her up to make them both stay in line, then deposited her with Bain for another round while Sigrid was bravely approaching Imrahil with an offer to teach him. For that alone Bard retreated back up to his seat to have an unobstructed view, still panting a little as he dropped back into his chair. 

"Enjoying yourself?" Thranduil asked, offering him a refilled wine cup that Bard drained faster than he probably should have. 

"Don't tell me you don't find this fun. It's not my fault you'd trip over your robes if you tried to join in." Bard carefully set the cup down on the table again and leaned on the armrest of his chair towards Thranduil so he wouldn't have to strain to hear him. "Even Imrahil's having fun, that has to be the first time in at least a century."

That drew a chuckle from the Thranduil. "I believe he merely hasn't found a way to politely refuse your daughter's invitation."

"Just watch and see. Any moment now he'll even crack a smile, and he'll be horribly confused." Bard watched Sigrid and her reluctant Elvish partner for a few moments, then shook his head at the sight. "You aren't going to let him return before he figures out that he might as well make the best of his stay here, are you?"

Thranduil cast him a smile that was so nondescript that it was an answer in itself. 

Bard narrowed his eyes in return. "I'm not sure how I feel about you using Dale as a teaching ground for your children."

"You've sent me yours over the winter, I am merely returning the favour. For Imrahil it's a bracing experience, and he's learning a lot."

Right now the Elf in question was learning to keep his feet out of the way so he wouldn't get stepped on by enthusiastic dancers, as far as Bard could tell. He didn't look too happy about it, and the flower wreath on his head had slipped down into his eyes. 

"He's plotting bloody murder, that's what he's doing," Bard muttered with a shake of his head, then laughed when Sigrid nimbly stepped around Imrahil in a pattern that apparently was entirely too strange, judging by his look. "But speaking of children, you and I need to talk about pregnancies."

That did earn him a brief look of complete and utter confusion from Thranduil. Bard chalked it up as a rare victory; it wasn't like he often managed to actually surprise him. 

"Not in that sense, unless there's something you haven't been telling me about Elves." He shifted to let his hand come to rest on Thranduil's lower arm, the gesture innocent enough for a public setting. It got him a raised eyebrow and a look that clearly said Thranduil knew what he was doing. Bard cheerfully ignored it. "Some of your Elves haven't been sleeping in their barracks for a while now but have been invited to join households in Dale. Which I don't mind, and the ladies in question definitely didn't mind, which matters a good deal more than what I think about it anyway."

A puzzled frown was beginning to settle on Thranduil's face. 

"So I had a few visitors just before you were set to arrive," Bard continued, looking at the crowd to see whether he couldn't spot any of them. He saw one of the couples in question standing together near the fountain; the other had to be somewhere too but he couldn't find them right now. "Apparently it came as something of a surprise that sharing a bed can have results, and really, how can Elves not know that? Surely you can't think you find babies in the cabbage patch."

That drew a quiet laugh from Thranduil. "It's not a mystery. But for Elves, children are a deliberate decision and very rarely unexpected."

"I take it that when one side of the couple isn't an Elf, surprises happen?" Bard asked. "Be that as it may, the expecting mothers have informed me, very bluntly if I may say so, that two of your Elves are going to be fathers by autumn and that you'd better not even consider rotating them back to the Woodland Realm." 

The entire talk had been one of the stranger moments in Bard's life, which by now was saying something. But the women plainly saw it as his responsibility to settle this matter for them, and the Elves had looked thoroughly fearful at the prospect of speaking to their king. So Bard had congratulated them and had promised to inform Thranduil when the opportunity presented itself. Then he'd drawn the two Elves aside and calmly threatened to snip off a few important bits if they gave their partners anything to complain about. 

Cocking his head, Thranduil ran his free hand along the rim of his cup, looking contemplative as he turned over the news in his head. "I assume these aren't the only couples?" he eventually asked.

"No, though I imagine that by now word has spread that a little more precaution than usual is wise." Bard patted Thranduil's arm in the admittedly unlikely case reassurance was required. "I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later, and as long as everyone involved is content…" He shrugged. "I don't think anyone's going to stand in their way unless the children turn out to have wings and breathe fire."

He felt the muscles in Thranduil's arm flex under his palm as the Elf shifted in his seat to turn more fully towards Bard, making their conversation easier despite the music picking up volume. Apparently the same melody was known to the people of Dale, the Rohirrim and even the Dwarves, albeit with different lyrics, but none of them were about to let that stop them. All around the Elves were looking faintly concerned at the cacophony, especially once it took on a competitive streak. 

"The children won't look strange, I can promise you that much," Thranduil said. "Though the pointy ears might get them teased by Dwarves if you insist on permitting the little imps into your city."

Ignoring the bit about Dwarves, Bard glanced at him. "Experience?"

"Men have been living in the Woodland Realm since even before my father wore the crown. There has always been someone on either side who was curious. You're the best example, one of your ancestors clearly was taken with an Elf at some point."

"Too far back to matter, you said," Bard pointed out. "All it gets me is strange looks when I tell pigeons to shove off and they actually obey."

Thranduil smirked at that. "Useful, I imagine. As for these children… they won't fall ill easily, they won't feel the cold and heat as much, they won't need much rest." He paused, wincing when the singing took a vigorous spin. "They'll also be a lot better at carrying a tune."

Bard kindly reached for the pitcher to refill both their wine cups. "No reason to worry then."

***

When Bard woke in the middle of the night, it was to the quiet rustle of fabric, then the faint thump of soft-soled Elvish boots being set down on the wooden floor. The mattress dipped to his left, accompanied by an almost inaudible creak of the bed frame.

He managed a highly eloquent hum that in his mind encompassed inquiries as to the hour, the reason, and the sheer audacity of doing things that required getting properly dressed again when there'd been mutual and very enthusiastic undressing earlier that night. Scandalous, almost, and he might have murmured that last bit out loud before burying his face in the froofy pillow again. 

Thranduil settled back under the sheets, one arm slung across Bard's back as he shifted closer. It was almost too warm despite the breeze from the open windows, but given a choice between a pleasantly cool bed and having someone to curl up against, Bard firmly preferred the latter. For now, at least; he reserved the right to change his mind once the summer heat set in properly.

"Go back to sleep, there's no need to wake," Thranduil told him, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Bard's mind chose to interpret that as a reason to be contrary. Another grumble into the pillow, then he turned his head enough to try and crack one eye open. Then he shut it again because there wasn't anything to see without a lamp anyway. "Odd time for a walk," he eventually managed.

"Elves don't need sleep," Thranduil reminded him.

Bard huffed at that and pushed himself up far enough to move closer and rest his head on Thranduil's shoulder instead of the too-soft pillow, then snuffled when he suddenly had a face full of hair. 

"If Elves don't sleep, then why are you here?" he asked, words partially muffled by a yawn. "Because I'm definitely not up for anything else right now."

"Would you prefer it if I bedded down in the hayloft?" Thranduil returned the question, and his arched eyebrows were practically audible in his voice. 

Bard shook his head a little and reached to sleepily pat the first bit of Elf he could reach, which turned out to be his hip. "Not really. It's nice."

Silence, then, "Go to sleep, Bard. Truly."

He drew a slow breath, then another as he tried to follow that suggestion. Shifted. Then rolled onto his back with a groan and blinked his eyes open when he felt himself wake rather than drift towards sleep. For a little while he lay still and stared up into the darkness, struggling to convince his mind that rest was a wonderful idea. 

To his left he heard a sigh. "You just have to be contrary, don't you?"

"If you have to make it sound like an order it's hardly my fault." Bard pushed down the sheet a little to see if that might be more comfortable, but it didn't bring a noticeable improvement. Summer nights in Dale were turning out to be warmer than on the lake, where a breeze had always cooled the air. "No need for you to stay awake too, though."

Thranduil sighed again, then caught Bard's hand where it rested on the mattress and laced their fingers together. "Elves don't require sleep. I do appreciate the company, however."

"And yet you go wandering off," Bard said, deliberately keeping his tone teasing enough that the words couldn't be taken as a complaint. 

"You Men are not particularly interesting when all you do for hours is snore. Very inconvenient, this constant need for rest that you have." Thranduil lightly bounced their hands against the mattress, then tightened his hold a little. "I've spoken to Malantur and Hallacar about their situation." 

"In the middle of the night? Quite a moment to discuss impending fatherhood." Bard had rather liked those two Elves when he'd properly met them, rather than just knowing names to go with faces he saw on guard rotations and around the city. At the same time he couldn't deny that they presented a bit of a headache with their romantic entanglements. Not that he had any ground to stand on in that matter, though at least he wasn't likely to get his own Elf in the family way. Bard was pretty sure about that. He'd asked.

"They are on watch tonight, so it was a good opportunity to talk to them without attracting too much attention." Thranduil reached to brush his hair out of the way, and Bard obligingly raised his head when he felt a few strands catch under his cheek. "I can assure you that they're aware of their responsibilities."

Bard hummed in agreement. "I didn't get the impression that they're about to run off and vanish, but it must have been quite a surprise if Elves only fall pregnant after a deliberate decision to do so." He'd asked Tauriel about it when he'd caught her in a quieter moment during the feast and had gotten a brief explanation of Elvish family planning, which clearly was a lot less spontaneous than it could be for Men. Convenient at first glance, but then again Bain had been quite a surprise, so soon after Sigrid, and while that pregnancy certainly hadn't been planned, they couldn't have been happier about him.

"It was a surprise," Thranduil agreed, then hesitated audibly before he continued. "I don't believe they were aware that the children would be mortal."

Bard lifted his chin to glance up at Thranduil's face, even though he barely saw a shadow. "I thought Half-elven children aren’t that unusual? "

“Not unheard of, but exceedingly rare in this day and age. At least we no longer have to fear that the Valar might take an interest in the children.” 

“That’s a concern?” Bard asked. He still wasn’t entirely certain what to think of the fact that there were a lot more gods than the handful he’d been aware of, and that Thranduil knew some of them personally. 

"Merely for a select few Half-elves over the years who have drawn the attention of the Valar to their fates. There have been many more over the ages, but… " Thranduil shrugged and paused again, perhaps to choose the right words. "They lived their lives, they felt the influence of their Elvish parent's blood in their veins. And then they died."

And Elves would be highly aware of that last aspect. Bard had seen it in their behaviour here in Dale sometimes; they knew how to handle a death in battle, but more than a few Elves had been unsettled for days after old Stenar had died late this winter, after refusing to take shelter in the Woodland Realm. They'd befriended him and there had always been a handful of Elves happy to listen to his tales, the more outrageous the better. There had been plenty of attention and respect for him, but that stark reminder of mortality hadn't been something they'd been prepared for. 

"They lived their lives, that's what matters," Bard offered. "It's the best we can hope for."

Thranduil exhaled slowly. "They'll go where Elves cannot follow, beyond this world while we remain until its end."

"What happens then?" Bard asked into the darkness. "At the end?"

"Arda will be destroyed and a new world will be sung into being where all Elves shall wake again and even the Valar will be young once more. But the fate of Men is unknown to us." Shifting, Thranduil brought up his free hand to slowly card it through Bard's hair, the movements smooth and even. "Where you go, we don't know."

Bard leaned into the touches for a little while, gathering his thoughts. He'd never dwelled on the matter for too long; death was simply part of life and nothing to be questioned. With some luck it came swiftly after many good years, but there was no doubt that it would come. 

He realised that maybe it wasn't so simple. Elves could die, he’d been well aware of that sobering fact ever since last autumn's battle. But they could also see thousands of years go past. How many generations of mortal Men had Thranduil seen grow up and grow old? Bard couldn't even begin to guess, and he certainly wasn't going to ask, not when it was an inevitability between them. Eventually he'd be dead and buried, with memories all that might remain in this world. It was oddly comforting to think that some of those memories might be held by someone who might, conceivably, live forever.

"Have you ever asked what happens to us Men afterwards?" he asked.

Thranduil took some time to answer, and when he did it sounded reluctant. "The Elves know nothing. Even the Valar have no knowledge of it." 

"But you've never thought to ask us Men? My grandmother could have told you." Thranduil's hand in his hair stilled, and Bard took that as encouragement to continue. "We go on to the next world and come to a valley of cherries and thorn roses, and there we'll find all those who've gone before us."

"Cherries and roses? That seems very detailed. How would she know?"

Bard flicked his finger against Thranduil's side. "Do you doubt my grandmother?"

The petting resumed. "I wouldn't dare."

"It seems to me," Bard said slowly, searching for the right words, "that perhaps we simply go ahead to that next world before you do. Maybe we'll be the firstborn for once, and we'll just have to wait until you find your way as well. You Elves always take so long for everything anyway."

Silence settled between them. Thranduil kept on running his hands through Bard's hair, occasionally coming across a knot and pausing to carefully untangle it. Bard let him, focused on the calming repetitiveness as he gradually slid back towards sleep. 

"What would you do until then?" Thranduil asked him eventually. "While we Elves take our time before we rejoin you in that coming world."

Bard laughed quietly. "You pick your moments, and the right person to ask. I don't know. I imagine there'll be plenty to do, and the road there probably isn't the shortest either. Maybe we'll sleep a while so we're rested for the next life and not weary. But it will be good to be with everybody again who we're missing now." His mother. His father, lost in that late winter storm that had struck out of nowhere. His grandmother and her tales. Kari. 

Ah, Kari... He'd have so many stories to tell her about their children, and he could just picture her smile once she heard them. That same smile she'd given him so often and which he still saw in his mind whenever he thought of her.

Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Thranduil remained quiet and simply continued carding his fingers through Bard's now thoroughly untangled hair, gathering it up and then twisting it together again before beginning anew. He wasn't entirely pleased with the shorter cut, Bard knew; even now he was tugging at the strands as though he could make them longer that way. 

"Don't make me end up with braids," he murmured. 

Thranduil once more tugged at the hair at the nape of Bard's neck. "As if that were possible. You should grow it out." 

"Then I'll just end up with hair in my eyes." Bard could feel the combing take on a more deliberate pattern now, and he earned himself a disapproving grumble when he turned his head and apparently disturbed whatever it was Thranduil was doing. 

Elves. At least he wasn't at risk of growing bored anytime soon, though he might end up with pigtails one of these days.

"It would only make sense that you Elves go there too in the end, wouldn't it?" he eventually picked up their earlier line of conversation again. "To the next world, the same where we'll already be."

Thranduil's hands stilled. "How so?"

"If we're to be with friends and family again in the next world, then the Elves should be in the same place," Bard attempted to explain. It made sense in his head, but he couldn't quite grasp the right words to communicate it all. "Think of those Half-Elven children, why should they not see one of their parents again? And what of those of us who count Elves among our friends? I don't think that the gods would be so cruel." 

Thranduil considered that. "Maybe not," he allowed, slowly stroking along the shell of Bard's ear. "And yet the wait would be a long one, and cruel in itself."

"But with something to look forward to at the end, with friends to see once more." Bard reached to rest his hand on Thranduil's chest, palm flat against his warm skin so he could feel the slow rise and fall. "I wonder if the Dwarves will be there too."

Under his palm, Thranduil's breaths stuttered with a sudden cough. "A question I'd rather not dwell upon."

"Best leave some surprises," Bard agreed with a smile that he knew would be heard, if not seen. "We'll find out in the end, once the Elves are done with following their longer path. You'll all get there eventually."

He felt the press of Thranduil's lips against the top of his head. "An elating thought. Friends aren't easily abandoned."

"Nor should they be." Turning and pushing himself up on his elbow, Bard strained to claim a kiss. In the dark his aim was a little off, so he found Thranduil's cheek at first, then his mouth for a moment before settling down again. "Even when they keep you awake in the middle of the night."

That drew the hint of a chuckle. "I don't recall complaints." 

"Only because I've learned that complaining to Elves is pointless. You're far too used to getting your way." Which was being demonstrated right now, what with Thranduil pushing and shoving until they were both arranged to his satisfaction. Bard let himself be manhandled for a bit, then grumbled and rolled over to drop back down with what he hoped communicated some finality. A quick twist to bunch up the cushion under his head, then he let himself fall still. 

Thranduil mercifully appeared to get the idea and quieted down as well, making himself comfortable with a bare hand's width between them in deference to the day's warmth that still lingered. His hand against Bard's shoulder was the only point of contact between them, but it was a solid enough reminder of each other's presence, and enough to let Bard drift off to sleep.

***

Summer brought with it plenty of good weather, as predicted, and also a surprising amount of work. Lake-town had never relied much on its own farming of food on the shores, and this year they were discovering what they'd left to others in the past. The grain in the fields was still ripening, but Dale's tentative forays into vegetables were yielding results as a reward of all the time and effort they’d put into it. Fortunately nobody minded spending hours on weeding, digging up rocks and constructing barns if it meant escaping the ubiquitous diet of mainly lembas they'd been on since last autumn.

An even more unexpected part of summer harvesting was hay. When they'd settled on which fields to cultivate, they had planned on some meadows for their handful of horses and other animals, but now there suddenly were a few hundred mounts to feed as well. The Rohirrim had scouted the surroundings for suitable grass, had deemed it ready to be cut right after the midsummer feast, and suddenly half of Dale was caught up in a flurry of activity. A few Elves who were in charge of Mirkwood’s crops had accompanied Thranduil on his current visit to do their best and arrange it all in some semblance of order, but mostly they were busy making sure that nobody accidentally beheaded themselves with a scythe.

Bard spent the better part of a week out in the fields with dozens of others, his own people and Rohirrim alike, cutting grass and then spreading it, raking it into rows and turning and bundling and then starting all over again. Navigating the River Running and the Long Lake had been back-breaking work at times, but there had been stretches of rest often enough when the current or the wind had done his work for him. During their days of hay-making, Bard found himself falling into bed in the evening as soon as his other duties as leader of Dale allowed, completely and utterly exhausted. It earned him plenty of disapproval from Thranduil, since menial labour, in the Elvenking’s opinion, wasn’t a part of leadership. Bard could see the reasoning behind his words, but the memory of the Master was still far too fresh in his mind. He refused to be a leader who was unwilling to ask as much of himself as of his people, especially when summer storms threatened their hard-won harvest at the last moment.

Their efforts paid off when a change in weather blew in just as they were bringing the carts heaped high with hay into the city and safely under the barn roofs. Perched on the last cart, Bard saw the black clouds gather in the sky and smelled the rain in the air, and by the time the cart was in the dry, the thunderstorm was almost upon them. 

"See to the horses, I'll handle the unloading!" he called out to the Rohir who'd been with him on the cart. Technically the hay could remain where it was for now, but there was no point in leaving that last bit of work incomplete. Besides, there wasn't much Bard could do to make himself useful in the impending weather anyway, so he might as well drag hay about. 

"I didn't realise that the Lord of Dale is a farm hand," Thranduil said behind him, unexpected enough to make him flinch and almost drop his pitchfork.

"Doesn't make much difference to the hay, I imagine." Bard tossed a load of hay onto the stack left by the earlier carts, then leaned on the handle of his pitchfork to catch his breath. "Done with today’s bickering with Dáin already? Come to help me, have you?"

Lightning flashed and a crack of thunder followed almost immediately, accompanied by the sudden rush of a downpour. "Perish the thought," Thranduil said with a shake of his head and a disdainful glance at the pitchfork. "I've come to take you to deal with proper work."

"This is proper work," Bard shot back and pushed himself back upright to wield the pitchfork again. "Just ask my shoulders."

Thranduil didn't immediately reply and Bard ignored him, focused on doing something that yielded far more results than all the talking and paperwork he'd have to deal with otherwise. Percy had taken quite a shine to compiling lists and keeping track of all manner of things, from the all-important supply situation to more mundane matters like what was owed to the Dwarves for their work. But Bard was still the one who was expected to make decisions based on all that information. It was a change from what his life had been like just a year ago that he still struggled with. 

"Someone else can do this," Thranduil said eventually, his voice suspiciously measured. "Your other tasks are your own and cannot be so easily delegated."

"My other tasks can also be delayed by a day or two," Bard countered, pitching another forkful of hay onto the pile with a by now well-practiced swing. "But we'll need this cart unloaded by tomorrow so it can be put to another use. I'm not going to drag anyone else here through the rain when I might as well do it myself."

Thranduil stepped closer, the fabric of his light summer robe rippling with the faint air currents. The silver-threaded embroidery caught the dim light enough to sparkle and only made him look even more out of place in a dusty barn. "You should let someone else deal with this. And you will, once you get over the idea that you have to do everything by yourself."

Over the past months Bard had developed something of a tolerance when it came to Thranduil's tendency to state what he wanted to happen, then stand back and expect that pronouncement to come to fruition without a word to the contrary. Three thousand years of ruling a realm probably had that effect, coupled with that general Elvish air of faint arrogance. The knowledge, however, didn't make Bard feel any more inclined to actually let him get away with it, so he simply went back to pitching hay while raindrops and something that might well be hail hammered against the roof tiles.

"There will always be something that needs to be done in this moment and doesn't require an expert to handle it," Thranduil went on, unperturbed when Bard deliberately threw the next load of hay quite close to him. "But you cannot do all of them and neglect your responsibilities. Others expect you to fulfill your duties and it's why they've chosen you."

Bard scowled down at him, quite happy about his elevated position up on the cart. "Don't tell me that I'm neglecting responsibilities."

"It's the truth. You and I may have settled all discussions that need to be handled between Dale and the Woodland Realm for the moment, but there are daily matters that require your attention." Thranduil glanced at the floor, then plucked at his robes to remove an errand stalk of hay that had dared to settle on his shoulder. "You're not being useful when you're pushing yourself into exhaustion and are unable to deal with them."

"You're exaggerating. I'm not going to make the people run every little decision past me, and we're finally at a point where some things are becoming routine. Hilda can decide what to do about settling the Rohirrim, Percy can estimate the supplies. They don't need me to nod."

Thranduil heaved a sigh that was exaggerated for Bard's benefit and rankled no less because of that little bit of consideration. "What do you imagine I do all day?" he asked.

Bard tethered between sensibility and the irritation he’d felt growing inside him for the past days, whenever he’d come face to face with Thranduil’s criticism, not made any better by the awareness that it wasn’t entirely unfounded. The irritation won out. "Make sure you present a properly fabulous sight?"

Thranduil's eyebrows rose, but there also was a hint of amusement that slipped past his carefully serene mask. "That hardly requires all my attention. It comes more naturally to some of us." Then he sobered again. "I speak to my councilors, I hear reports from my watch captains and the cooks and the weavers, anyone who is part of my realm. It matters to them that they inform me about their achievements and concerns, and I have to know whether they handle their duties properly. I've got to be the one who notices when something veers off the intended path in a direction where it could cause harm in the future. It has to be me because I'm the one who looks at it as a whole, while they focus on their smaller responsibilities. I trust them to do their work, just as they trust me to do mine. Otherwise the Woodland Realm would hardly need me as a king."

Sticking the pitchfork into the hay with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary, Bard swung around and took a step forward to the edge of the cart. "You can't tell me your realm wouldn't function without you. You've been here in Dale for over a week now, and you've been here for a month in autumn."

"My realm has those routines you think you are establishing here. It's taken decades, even centuries in some areas to reach a point where it is all balanced enough that I can be away for some time without risking ill effects. My council is ruling in my stead, but they still send daily dispatches with the most important information." A crack of thunder interrupted him and he paused until his words would be heard again. "Once not all of Dale's labour force is tied up with repairs and farming anymore after the harvest, you'll need to establish structures anyway. You should come to my realm for a season, see how the daily governing can be handled."

Bard snorted and folded his arms. "As if I'm going to abandon my people."

The sudden smile on Thranduil's face was highly disconcerting. "Then do what they expect of you. They know that their lord is supposed to be the one to handle decisions and have the knowledge necessary for that. I doubt they expect you to spend all day doing menial labour."

"It's what I've done ever since I was tall enough to handle tools." Some of Bard's earliest memories were of helping his father to untangle ropes and nets to use on the barge, and he'd done more and more over the years. "I'm good at that kind of stuff. I'm not good at handling papers."

"Which is not a reason to avoid them. Quite the opposite." Thranduil stepped forward and came to a halt right in front of Bard, his hand falling casually onto the cart's wooden side wall. "I should think that you'd want to be the one to make decisions, what with your disregard for authority."

"Doesn't help much when people turn me into the authority to disregard, does it?" 

Thranduil smirked up at him. "Consider the advantage. Nobody even attempts to give you orders."

Bard smirked right back down. "Except for you."

"I'm merely making suggestions and offering advice." 

With a shake of his head, Bard hopped down from the cart onto the floor, knees bent to absorb the impact. "It's truly amazing how you manage to look as though you believe that," he said and deliberately stepped into Thranduil's space.

The Elf didn't back away, not that Bard had expected him to. "Of course I believe it," he stated, and Bard almost envied him for the ease with which he could switch to a completely and utterly regal tone of voice. It was impressive even when it was plainly a pretense. "Help your people with the harvest for a day or two, if that's what allows you the peace of mind to concentrate on your tasks as Dale's lord. But then do what they look upon you to do."

Bard sighed. "You make it sound simple."

"Quite the contrary, it may well be the most difficult lesson you ever learn in your life." Thranduil looked distant for a moment, leaving Bard to wonder what he thought of playing his role as the Elvenking. A question best left for another day, however.

"How very encouraging," he muttered instead. 

The expression in Thranduil's eyes was unreadable. "It wasn't meant to be." 

Bard shot him an exasperated glance. "Elves," he huffed and closed the remaining distance between them. When the attempt of resting his hands on Thranduil's hips was thwarted by the robes getting in the way, he aimed for the shoulders instead and then slid his hands lower, grumbling a little at the layers of clothing. 

"I am not even wearing court robes, so don't complain," Thranduil admonished, bowing his head to kiss him, one hand coming up to cradle Bard's face and keep him in place. It was a rare moment for them during the daylight hours, but nobody in their right mind would venture outside with the rain still pouring down. So Bard settled into the kiss and just enjoyed it, chuckling when he felt Thranduil's hands against his backside and sliding lower to grip the hem of his tunic. 

"Shouldn't you be thinking about your duties?" he asked. 

"There isn't much to do except wait for the weather to pass." Thranduil's answer was punctuated by a deafening crack of thunder that sounded as though the storm was right above them now. "Perhaps I can provide an incentive for you."

"How very selfless of the high and mighty Elvenking." Bard claimed another kiss with plenty of enthusiasm, and for a little while let himself focus on that simple pleasure. Kissing was good; it wasn't complicated and let him lose himself in Thranduil's by now familiar taste and scent, reassuring and arousing at the same time. 

Thranduil eventually drew back just enough to survey their surroundings, and Bard felt his chest rise and fall with a sigh. "I should have convinced you to return to a place where more civilised comforts can be found," he murmured, pushing up Bard's tunic far enough to tease at the bare skin at the small of his back.

"Think of it as a rustic adventure," Bard suggested. "Plenty of soft, fresh hay."

"Rustic," Thranduil repeated as if the word were faintly offensive, but allowed Bard to rest a hand between his shoulders and lead him around the piles of hay to a quieter corner where they would be out of sight in the unlikely case that someone was crazy enough to brave the rain and come looking for them. "I don't believe I see the appeal."

Bard just grinned at him and leaned in, bringing their hips together and drawing a quiet moan from him. "I think you do," he drawled and earned a thoroughly unimpressed stare in response. "You may find this hard to believe, but overstuffed cushions aren't always necessary."

"But decidedly more comfortable," Thranduil countered, his eyes sliding shut when Bard kissed him once more. 

The temptation was hard to resist, so Bard didn't even try. A step forward, a light push, and Thranduil was tumbling down into the hay with a noise that couldn't be called a yelp only because Elves probably were incapable of producing that kind of sound. Bard dropped down half on top of him, undeterred by the glare levelled at him. 

"What exactly," Thranduil demanded to know, every word sharp, "do you think you're doing?"

Arms braced to the left and right of Thranduil's head, Bard grinned down at him. "It's what we Men call a roll in the hay."

Judging by the continuing glower, Thranduil still wasn't impressed, though he allowed another kiss when Bard bent his head to try for it. Around them the hay rustled quietly, the fresh, dry scent of grass and flowers enveloping them. It was easy to let himself sink into the moment, and Bard let himself enjoy it, smiling when he felt Thranduil draw up one leg and hook it around his own.

Then he sucked in a sharp gasp when he was shoved up and to the side and ended up on his back, not quite sure how he'd gotten there. A heartbeat later he was pinned down by a smirking Elf who might have been lighter than a Man of his size, but still heavy enough to drive the breath out of his lungs for a moment. 

"Better, I think," Thranduil mused, his folded arms resting on Bard's chest. His long hair fell around them as they kissed again, the rumbling thunder outside fading into the background. Bard felt his tunic get dragged up once more while he was distracted with the delicate - and far too numerous - lacings on Thranduil's fine robes. 

"Better indeed," Bard agreed when he could finally run his hands over Thranduil's bare chest with a contented sigh. It was almost decadent to do this with daylight coming from the narrow windows right beneath the roof instead of darkness or the faint illumination from a lamp or two. 

Rolling them over once again, he didn't bother to dwell on the fact that Thranduil had allowed it and had even made sure that they ended up on his discarded robe, spread out to shield them from poking haystalks. 

"I still maintain that a bed would be preferable by far," Thranduil murmured but let himself be silenced by Bard's mouth against his own, hands slipping underneath the fabric of Bard's breeches with clear intent. 

"A change of scenery keeps boredom at bay," Bard replied and wanted to say more, but then his attention was taken up entirely by teasing fingers travelling inwards along the crease of his hip, maddeningly stopping just before they could get far enough. 

Thranduil chuckled at his irritated grumble and leaned down to nip at the sensitive skin just under his ear, followed up with bites down the length of Bard's throat. At the side of his neck Thranduil lingered long enough to raise a spot of heat that didn't fade even when he pushed up again to demand a kiss. 

"Bored, are you?" he asked, his smile widening when Bard vainly tried to buck his hips and get that hand anywhere near his increasingly interested cock. "Well, we can't have that now, can we?"

"It sure would be a shame," Bard countered, then managed to convince his body to briefly put enough distance between them to deal with the rest of their clothes. With a happy sigh he sank down again and they resettled against each other, the hay shifting beneath them as their movements slowly turned more deliberate. 

It was odd, Bard thought absently with his focus on Thranduil's lips and teeth and tongue as they kissed once again, how smoothly they fit together in this. Not so much the physical side of things - they'd been getting plenty of practice in that regard - but matching each other's moods as well as they did. It took familiarity to be so attuned, and he hadn't thought they'd quite gotten that far yet. 

A sharp pinch to his nipple made his attention snap back to where it probably should be. "Distracted?" Thranduil asked, a hint of danger in his eyes as he traced innocent patterns on Bard's chest with his thumb. 

"Just thinking," he said, then moaned when Thranduil slowly dragged his hand lower again, past Bard's stomach and down between his legs, all pretense of teasing gone now.

Thranduil looked at him, the normally bright eyes now dark with arousal, and Bard found it hard to even blink. "Let's see," Thranduil purred and curled his fingers around Bard's cock, scattering the rest of his thoughts, "if we can't put a stop to that."

Later they lay together in the fragrant hay, heartbeats slowly calming as they appreciated each other’s closeness in lazy kisses and aimless caresses. Despite the daylight and being almost out in the open, it might just be the most private time they’d ever shared. Nobody was nearby, no-one was going to interrupt them while the thunderstorm raged outside and the rain poured down in a torrent. By now Bard recognised it for the rarity it presented. He couldn’t lay a claim on the Elvenking, but right now it was simply Thranduil whose hair was tickling his belly, whose fingers were rubbing warm circles against the spot in Bard’s lower back that twinged and ached sometimes. And for all its rarity, Bard was determined to enjoy this moment for all its worth.

***

The fields burned, and with them their precious harvest.

"Give up, Dragonslayer," Smaug growled at him. The dragon lounged in a field in the midst of the fire, wings spread to fan the flames. Rising smoke was making it hard to see for more than a few feet, and Bard felt his lungs tighten at the lack of clean air and the acrid smell in his nose. His eyes watered, turning everything blurry around him. Only Smaug was impossible to miss, a dark shape that glowed brighter than the fire in places. 

"You won't be rid of us so easily," he countered and fought the urge to cough. A dream, he told himself. Just a dream. No real smoke, no real dragon. 

Smaug turned his head in an almost lazy fashion and drew a deep breath, then another before spitting fire at the rows of cabbages they'd planted. "You're nothing, Dragonslayer, you and your measly, miserable little town. Give up."

"No." Once again he yearned for a bow and felt it in his hand a moment later, the leather-wrapped grip reassuringly familiar. But there were no arrows, and he didn't have his quiver on him. "You won't chase us off. We're here to stay, we've reclaimed Dale from the destruction you wrought. You lost!"

The dragon threw back his head and laughed. "I've destroyed your puny town once, when a far mightier lord than you tried to defend it and failed with such disgrace. What makes you think it will be different this time? That you can do better?"

Suddenly the dragon's maw was right before him, close enough that if Bard had reached out, he could have touched the pock-marked scales. He forced himself not to flinch or to lean back, and for long moments they stared at each other. Then those huge golden eyes blinked once, twice, a third time and he became aware that the dragon was sniffing him. 

"Girion's get, are you?" Smaug snarled and exhaled so swiftly that Bard was almost thrown off his feet by the rush of scalding air. "What would he have said if he'd known his line would come to this? I should devour you right here and hunt down your brats so an end comes to his blood. It's what he deserves."

Bard hadn't spent much time thinking about his ancestor. But if Girion had been anything like the tales, and anything like what Bard felt now and what he saw in his children, then the man wouldn't have cared about anything but slaying the dragon by whatever means necessary. He wouldn't have cared that Bard had stumbled into leadership quite by accident as long as he did what was needed.

"I watched him burn," Smaug said almost conversationally. "Such a fool to think that he could stand against me."

There was no point in growing angry at a dead dragon in a dream, but Bard didn't bother quelling the feeling. His people, his city, his ancestor - what right did that sodding creature have to threaten them? Tightening his hand on his bow, he itched for an arrow just to show Smaug that two could play this game, that just because this was Bard's nightmare didn't mean that it couldn't be turned around. 

For the blink of an eye he thought he could feel the soft brush of fletching against his fingertips, but before he could make anything of it, the world turned dark around him as he woke, still shivering with tension.

***

There were Elves in the fountain. Again.

Bard just cast Hilda an apologetic smile and followed her when her stony expression brooked no protest. "I'm not sure what you expect me to do," he tried.

Hilda huffed with irritation, arms firmly folded. "Tell them to get out. Whack them with a broom if you have to. I don't care, we've got plenty of things to do and if I see one more Elf's dangly bits while I'm trying to scrub a tunic, there'll be screaming and it won't be me."

"Haven't you told them that they're in the way?" Bard asked as they came out onto the raised platform before the great hall. He could already see the problem; frolicking, singing Elves were rather hard to miss even when half submerged in water. 

She stopped for a moment to glare at him, then marched on and clearly expected him to catch up. Bard did; he knew what was good for him. "I've told them. Kyrre has told them. Percy has told them. It goes in one pointy ear and out the other, and it's getting bloody irritating."

"So why do you think I'll be more successful?"

The look she gave him said that he was being slow and that she wasn't in the mood to put up with it. "You're sleeping with their king, that should give you some kind of authority. And you're the lord here, it's why we keep you around."

"Charming," Bard muttered at the words he heard far too often and followed her down the steps, still somewhat dubious that his sex life - much as he appreciated having one again - qualified him for the role of Dale's resident Elf wrangler. 

Hilda stopped to poke his chest hard enough to make him wince. "Get those damned pointy-ears out of my fountain," she growled, "or there'll be an incident. Get going."

Bard went. 

The handful of Elves in the fountain watched as he approached, curious as cats. In a way Bard could understand the sentiment, what with the sweltering temperatures and the temptingly cool water. On the other hand, Hilda was getting downright territorial these days and he knew when to keep his head down and do as he was told.

"We've gone over this," he said, trying not to look below the waterline in case they took it as an insult or, worse, as an encouragement. "There’s the River Running. And we’ve completed the baths two weeks ago, there’s no more excuse for you to be here."

One of the Elves raised a hand, the gesture sending ripples across the water. "Lord Bard-"

"No," he interrupted, once again absently wondering just when his life had taken a turn for the absurd. "The fountain's off limits. I'm not going to explain to Lord Thranduil why I'm returning his archers to him with their balls missing, and believe me, Hilda's pissed off enough that it's becoming a serious risk."

A female Elf perked up. "So if I don't have…?"

Bard felt a headache coming on. Centuries-old creatures that were supposed to be wise and kind and ethereal. Whoever had come up with that description had never met the Elves currently stationed in Dale. "She'll find a way. And it's not up for debate. You'll stop bothering the laundry crew or I'll let Hilda set you to scrubbing however many dirty clothes she deems necessary."

The Elves considered that prospect, their enthusiasm visibly wilting. 

"Our apologies to you and to the Lady Hilda," one of them offered. 

Bard just tapped his foot, folded his arms and waited. 

Some kind of silent communication seemed to pass among them, then they climbed out of the water and headed for their barracks, their posture as meek as Elven elegance would allow. Which wasn't very much, but Bard was willing to take what he could get. He also wasn't going to tell them to put on clothes right now; just getting them out of the fountain was victory enough without complaining about them being naked and dripping water. 

"Some things in Dale are clearly different."

With an inward sigh, Bard turned around. "Lady Amathiel."

She quirked an eyebrow that made her look far too much like her father for a moment, even though she didn't take after him at all in her looks. "Should I be warning the Rohirrim?"

"Of what, that they'd better be prepared to run into nude Elves on occasion?" Bard shrugged. "Be my guest. Seriously, this cannot be normal. I can't imagine you all do this in the Woodland Realm. At the very least it must be far too impractical. Someone'd be bound to get their cock caught in a door. I’ve seen the baths there, I can’t remember naked Elves prancing about in the halls."

Amathiel's face turned blank for a moment in a way Bard had come to identify as surprise over such unaccustomed bluntness. Then she visibly gathered herself. "I wasn't aware that it's such a hardship."

Bard just cast her a sardonic glance. "There's enough about Dale that's peculiar, no need to add to it. The Dwarves already think we've all lost our minds and I'm fairly sure the Rohirrim aren't too far behind on that. With them it just helps that they don't seem to care much." Their new citizens simply appeared to shrug and fall into step with it all, which was more than Bard could have expected of them. Even he was willing to admit that Dale's little oddities took some adjustment, but the Rohirrim were taking it all in stride and adding their own quirks on top of those of Lake-towners and Elves and even the occasional Dwarf. 

"They're grateful to you, as am I," Amathiel said eventually. 

It took some effort not to roll his eyes at that. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not doing this for you."

She blinked at him. 

"The Rohirrim needed shelter. We're in a position to provide that thanks to Lord Thranduil, and we're gaining fighters that way so it's good for us too. That you seem set on proving something honestly doesn't matter much in that regard." Perhaps that had been blunter than it was wise, but it wasn't the first such conversation they'd had. Bard knew that she was angling for recognition, ideally in front of her father, and he wasn't sure he liked the way she was going about it.

Amathiel scowled at him and he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd drawn a dagger and tried to support her brother's assassination attempts. "I've brought them here. They're my responsibility."

"They're Léored's responsibility," Bard countered. "The last thing they need is someone who regards them as pets of some sort." 

"I don't think of them as pets!"

"Then stop trying to claim them." They were beginning to attract attention, and the last thing Bard needed was gossip about him and Amathiel having a brawl in the main square. From the looks of it, she was considering that option and there was no way that would end well for him. "Just because you brought them here doesn't mean they owe you allegiance now. If that were the case, I might as well sign over Dale to Lord Thranduil and we both know what his reaction to that would be. The only question would be whether he'd just go for that smirk he gets when someone does something particularly stupid, or rather just laugh." 

Her scowl deepened. 

Bard sighed inwardly and decided that Thranduil owed him for using Dale as a practice ground for his offspring. He wanted to like Amathiel, he really did, but her constant tense attempts at carving out a position for herself were beginning to wear on his patience. It was easier to get along with Imrahil in comparison, and that was saying something. "Have you ever actually asked if they want you to act as their patron?"

"They've thanked me!"

"Of course they've thanked you. Doesn't mean they want you to take over." He saw her eyes narrow at that and went ahead before she could protest or try to find an explanation that suited herself. "I'm more than grateful to Lord Thranduil for the aid he's still providing, but I'm not about to hand him control of Dale out of sheer gratitude. He probably wouldn't want it, either."

Amathiel's expression turned pinched. For a moment she glared at him, then spun around on her heel and stalked off, Elves and Men moving out of her way as she headed for the gate leading to the lower city.

Bard watched her go, then heaved a deep breath. Thranduil definitely owed him for this, and Léored and his Rohirrim did as well. Putting up with ambitious Elven ladies was not something life had prepared him for, and he had his doubts that the past Lords of Dale had had to deal with this either. It was almost a shame that he couldn't ask his ancestors for pointers on these matters; surely they'd have had some useful suggestions.

In the early afternoon Sigrid came to find him in the square, the cup of ale and plate of cheese and lembas in her hands a clear sign that she expected him to take a break. Lembas in itself wouldn't have been particularly tempting, but cheese still was a novel enough addition to Dale's diet that for the moment Bard readily put aside the rope he'd been splicing. Their small herd of cows and goats didn't yield much yet in terms of milk, but it was enough that a few enterprising Rohirrim had set up a dairy when none of the remaining former Lake-towners had known enough about cheesemaking to give it a try.

"Ropes?" Sigrid asked as she sat down on the steps by his side. She’d been out and about all day, he knew, helping Hilda and Percy with their duties in an effort to learn as much as she could. If it ever became necessary, Bard was quite confident by now that she could take over for either one of them. Right now he was just happy to see her ready and willing to take a little break with him instead of pushing herself even harder with each day.

"The loop gave out and you know Kyrre can't splice worth a damn, so I offered to help out." He scooted over a little to give her enough room to set down the plate. "Don't tell Thranduil or I'll have to face another lecture about the proper use of my time."

She cast him a swift smile and pushed the cup of ale closer to him. "In that case better make sure none of the Elves see you, or they'll tattle."

They both looked across the square, where at least twenty Elves were currently busy with repairing armour, fletching arrows and all kinds of other small tasks that let them sit together and gossip. It was downright astonishing how much time they could spend on idle chatter, but perhaps that was a side effect of immortality after all.

"A lost cause, I fear." Bard watched as Sigrid cut the cheese into chunks with a small knife he'd never seen before, but which clearly was Elvish. She caught him at it, raised an eyebrow and offered it to him for a closer look. 

"From Tauriel," she said. "She thinks I need to practice knife-throwing more often, so she's given me one of hers. I wasn't sure whether she could really afford to give it away, but she's been insistent." 

As Elvish blades went it didn't look like anything special, but it was still a valuable gift. Bard carefully weighed it in his hand, and even to his less than practiced eye it was a fine knife. He’d have to find a way to thank Tauriel; she’d already gifted Tilda with that little bow she’d promised his youngest daughter, and she was taking the time to show Bain the basics of hunting and tracking. "Perhaps we can find something suitable for her in turn?"

Sigrid nodded and accepted the knife when he handed it back to her, vanishing it somewhere in her skirt. "I've sewn ribbons for her hair from a bit of green silk I found. She's started to pay more attention to her braids again so they'll be useful."

It was the sort of small gesture typical for his daughter. She'd be the one to notice such a little matter and find a way to show kindness that wouldn't cause any harm to Tauriel's pride. The Elf had grown less wary and withdrawn lately, and while she still kept her distance from Imrahil and his troops, she readily interacted with the people of Dale now. And if there still was a hint of wistfulness about her when any of Thorin's company crossed her path, then that was neither here nor there. Bard certainly wasn't about to question it.

Companionably chatting, he and Sigrid shared the cheese and ignored the bit of lembas while trying not to be too obvious about it. A few more days until the grain harvest, then there'd be real bread again in Dale and they could have a break from all the lembas of the past months.

"Balin brought something for you this morning," she said eventually and carefully picked at a few crumbs of cheese on the plate. 

His mouth full, Bard just gave an inquisitive hum. 

"A box of jewels. He says they've found them in the vaults, and that they're special enough that the Dwarves don't want to keep them."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I like the idea of special jewels. The Arkenstone was bad enough." At times he still imagined he could feel the warmth it had radiated against his chest where he'd kept it safe in his tunic, and the deep unease it had caused him. 

"It's not like that. Balin says that the necklace belonged to Girion, it's been given to them as payment once."

"And now they want to give it back? Voluntarily, without payment in turn?"

Sigrid shrugged. "I looked into the box and I don't think it's been made by Dwarves, so perhaps they don't want to keep Elvish jewels in case Thranduil has objections. If they can give them to you, that's probably the best compromise they can find. They don't have to admit that they're worried."

Elves. Dwarves. Bard could only shake his head at the required diplomacy. Life could have been so much more straightforward without the need to constantly pay attention to these things. At least the Rohirrim were easy to handle as long as nobody accidentally insulted a horse.

"Should we keep them?" he asked. The thought of a small bit of their personal heritage was surprisingly pleasant, and until now the Black Arrow had been the only tangible part of it and that now lay at the bottom of the Long Lake. Girion's jewels… Bard wasn't quite sure what they'd actually do with them, but it seemed wrong to refuse them.

Sigrid considered briefly and he could tell that there was something on her mind. "I have an idea," she said eventually, "but you should take a look at them first before you decide."

Gathering up the remnants of their meal, Bard followed her back to their home, curious to see what she'd come up with. He'd have listened to her in any case even if she hadn't shown a knack at solving those myriad delicate diplomatic puzzles life kept throwing at him these days. By now Bard was reasonably good when it came to not stepping on too many toes, but Sigrid navigated those pitfalls with a deftness that still eluded him most of the time. Experience from being the oldest of three siblings and always the peacekeeper at home, perhaps, along with her scrupulous attention to detail. Not for the first time he wondered what might have become of her in Lake-town, and once again he couldn't find an answer to that. 

Sigrid led the way past the semi-public hall in their home up to their family's private study - which was a thought Bard was still getting used to, because until recently more than one room for all of them had been a luxury he hadn't really considered within their reach - and took a small wooden box from one of the chests by the wall.

"I think the box was made in Dale," she said, showing it to him. "The carvings don't look Dwarvish or Elvish. The jewels, on the other hand…" With a flick of her wrist she raised the lid and let him look inside.

The jewels lay in a jumble of finely spun gold thread and grass-green emeralds that sparkled as soon as the light hit them. There seemed to be countless small gems, and it took a little while until Bard could make out the patterns they'd been set in, swirls linking more elaborate flowers and even stylised birds. 

Carefully Bard lifted the necklace from the box and held it so they both could get a better look. "Definitely not Dwarvish," he agreed. "At least I don't think they'd come up with anything like this. I wonder who wore it? It doesn't look like something for a man."

Sigrid chuckled at that. "Who knows. Perhaps it was meant for Girion's wife?"

"Or a daughter." Bard put the necklace back down and tried not to tangle the fine links. "You should have it." She blinked at that, genuinely startled, so he went on, "You're the oldest, and I think the old lords would have been proud of you. It seems right for you to take it."

She held still for a few heartbeats, then accepted the box and slowly set it down on the small side table by the wall. "I said that I've got an idea."

Bard nodded and waited. 

"I think they should be given to Thranduil," she said. "He likes jewels."

He snorted at that, thinking of all the finery and jewelry he'd seen the Elvenking wear. "It's hard to miss."

"Exactly, and they look like something he'd appreciate to thank him for all the aid he's provided. They're pretty enough that even Elves will like them, and it's going to mean much that they belonged to the last Lord of Dale." Sigrid raised her head and from the look in her eyes he could tell that she'd thought about this. 

"You don't want them?" he asked. 

She shook her head and laughed. "What would I do with them?"

He almost suggested keeping them as a dowry, but swallowed the idea before he could voice it. That would be a few years off yet for her, and she'd not shown the slightest interest in anyone so far. Besides, Balin had shown him the accounts the Dwarves still maintained of the Lords of Dale's personal fortune they'd kept safe within their vaults, and dowries for Sigrid and Tilda were the least of his concerns.

"You should have them," he repeated. "What you want to do with them is your decision, and if you choose to give them to the Elves, it's your right to do so." 

Again she considered it, then nodded. "I think I will," she said and looked as though she was about to add something but decided against it. 

Bard waited briefly to see if she'd change her mind, then stepped close to draw her into a hug and drop a kiss into her soft brown hair. "Take your time. And if you ever wish for jewels to keep... " He trailed off and shrugged a little helplessly because the mere idea of having inherited their ancestors' riches was still baffling. "There seem to be a few vaults full of them for you to pick from."

***

In Dale, rainy days tended to be quiet days. Nobody was particularly interested in going out and getting wet in the midst of a torrential downpour when they might as well wait a few hours and sit tight instead. Today’s storm had been brewing for hours when the air had been sweltering already in the morning and only grown heavier with the heat; most people retreated to the relative cool of their houses by noon and even the Elves were noticeably flagging. A few were beginning to once again eye the fountain speculatively, though Hilda’s glares seemed enough to deter them.

It hadn’t taken too long for the rain to set in - mercifully without hail to threaten the fields - and by early afternoon Bard had resigned himself to an uneventful day spent inside with all the paperwork that had begun to encroach on his life. It was necessary, he knew that, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Census rolls and accounts of the city’s current assets, dozens of maps and records of negotiations, signed treaties and far more mundane property records… It added up now that they’d begun to see to it that families owned their houses outright, along with a small plot of land down on the plain for the coming year. The larger fields would still be owned and farmed by everybody as a communal effort, which meant yet another list because Percy insisted on administering those days of labour as a proper tithe. 

Percy, Bard had decided a while ago, was far too fond of lists for it to be healthy. Clearly his years as the portmaster had left their mark.

Bard was in his study with Sigrid, trying to make sense of a proposal for road maintenance the Dwarves had sent over, when a sharp rap from the open door made them both look up. 

“You need to do some lording outside, I refuse to deal with this idiocy,” Hilda told him and was gone again before Bard could even ask what it was this time they’d unearthed for him to deal with. 

Sigrid carefully weighed down the papers with the little decorative glass globes they’d found so their work wouldn’t get disturbed by a draft. “Best see what it is.” 

“Probably an Elf stuck up a roof somewhere again,” Bard muttered, already heading for the door. “You’d think they’d figured by now that not all the old rafters are solid enough to carry their weight.” Elves might be graceful creatures most of the time, but there were moments when they forgot that they were not dainty little birds. 

“Fanuidhel didn’t do it on purpose, and at least he stopped moving once the first tile dropped. He could have ruined the entire roof if he’d tried to get down by himself, Elf or not.” Sigrid smoothed down her skirt with a few practiced tugs, then followed him to the gate.

It wasn’t an Elf stuck on a roof. That might have been mildly annoying but worth a laugh, and easy to fix. This was much worse and made Bard snap from faint irritation at the disturbance to full alert within a heartbeat.

“I caught him lurking at the river bend,” Tauriel snarled once she spotted them, her dagger at the throat of a nervous-looking Braga before her. They both were soaked from the rain and even Tauriel’s boots were mud-splattered from the walk, though at least she didn’t look as if she’d been in a fight. It seemed that Braga had enough sense to come willingly rather than risk confronting an armed Elf openly. That he was a head taller than Tauriel and twice her width wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Call off your rabid Elf bitch and let me get out of the rain!” Braga demanded, the order diminished a little by the way he held himself very carefully to avoid getting nicked by Tauriel’s blade. “Insane, the whole lot of those damned creatures!”

“I’d be more polite if I were you,” Bard told him, arms folded. At his side, Sigrid mirrored his stance with plenty of disapproval in her posture. She’d never thought well of Braga, not since he’d seized her and Bain once and dragged them before the Master when they’d been little and up to a harmless bit of mischief in the market. It had earned Bard quite a lot of trouble - not that he’d ever have mentioned it to his children - for allegedly passing on his seditious behaviour to his offspring. He couldn’t have been prouder. 

Braga grunted with contempt, then turned his head away from Tauriel’s dagger to noisily spit on the ground. “Elves. Don’t see why you bother with them.”

Around the square, Bard became aware of a number of Elves listening in. “They have been our steadfast and faithful allies here in Dale. And even the old Master always did his best to stay on good terms with King Thranduil.” It had been out of cold calculation, since the Woodland Realm had been one of their most important trading partners. Even a foolish drunk like the Master had been well aware of that. “Has Alfrid forgotten that already?”

“Master Alfrid knows better than to rely on them. Mind, he’s got more pride than to sell out and warm their king’s bed for a few turnips.” Braga spat again, then treated Bard to a leer. “Not that you’re worth more, bargeman.”

“You speak to him about worth?” Tauriel demanded before Bard could say something. A sharp shove and Braga was sprawled on the wet cobblestones, blinking against the rain in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have shown you kindness when I caught you!”

“Kindness?” Braga demanded, his voice rising. “Kindness! I’m a messenger and you treat me like a criminal!”

“Is that not what you are?” Tauriel watched him climb back on his feet, her stance tense and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Bard hoped Braga was aware of that; he didn’t particularly want to deal with bloodshed today. 

They were attracting plenty of attention now. People were observing from the windows around the square, and from under the colonnades Imrahil and Amathiel were listening together with a group of Elves. Bard heaved an inward sigh; he didn’t think they’d take any insults to their father lightly, never mind that Thranduil was hardly the target here. 

“Deliver your message,” he said firmly. “We’ve all got more important matters to deal with.”

Braga took a step forward; Tauriel immediately seized his arm and he tore himself free with a sharp jerk. Up on the walls, Bard saw an Elven archer take aim, ready to drop Braga at the first sign that he was a threat. 

“The Master demands our share of the gold,” Braga said, raising his chin and squaring his shoulders. “You’ve stolen it from us. This is your last chance to right that wrong! You’ve robbed Lake-town of her people and the gold!”

Sigrid stepped forward before Bard could stop her, her face tight with tension. “That gold was never yours to begin with. My father killed the dragon. We’re the ones who fought the Orcs while you sat down at the lake in safety!”

“Shut up,” Braga told her, “this isn’t the place for a foolish girl. You’re going to let her behave like that, bargeman? You ought to give her a thrashing to straighten her out!”

Raising his arm to rest it on Sigrid’s shoulder, Bard drew her against him a little, partly to show her his approval and also to have her close and protected, just in case. He’d never trusted Braga, he certainly wasn’t about to start now. “She’ll say whatever she wants.”

“And you’ll listen,” Tauriel hissed from behind Braga, daggers twirling in her hands in bright flashes. There was a little smile on Sigrid’s face when Bard glanced down at her to gauge her mood; apparently she wasn’t cowed. Not that she had any reason to be. He squeezed her shoulder lightly and felt her lean against him for a moment before she straightened again. 

“Mad, the lot of you,” Braga muttered with a shake of his head. “Master Alfrid wants what’s ours. He’s giving you this last chance to hand over the gold without punishment, and he’ll accept the people back into Lake-town.”

“We don’t want to go back to Lake-town!” someone shouted from one of the windows. “Tell that to that snivelling little bastard!”

“Better not, or he’ll get it into his head to come here!” another voice added. “We don’t want no weasels!”

“Should have left him in that troll! I told you all not to drag him out!”

“He was wearing women’s boots, how was I to know it was Alfrid?” By now the entire town seemed to get in on the discussion. Eyebrows raised, Bard just listened and did his best not to grin. He had the faint suspicion that it wouldn’t be considered diplomatic. 

“Someone should have stuffed him back. Would have saved all of us a world of trouble.”

“Perhaps if we find another troll…”

“Oh shut it, Kyrre, you’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Let’s just ignore the little snot.” 

Braga’s expression clearly said that he hadn’t expected this. Bard felt no sympathy whatsoever; instead he was simply gleeful at seeing that particular confused expression on someone else for once. 

“You hear the people,” he said, chin raised as he looked down at Braga. “They’re not interested in what Alfrid has to say. But I’ll repeat our offer. If Lake-town needs help with rebuilding or food, we’ll do what we can.”

“We don’t want your Elvish scraps,” Braga spat. “We demand the gold. You’ve robbed us of all trade and cut off our livelihood, the least you can do is repay us for our losses!”

Bard glanced around the square and saw the expressions on people’s faces, a blend of irritation and mockery. But underneath it all was anger strong enough to be almost palpable. They had ducked their heads and suffered the Master’s rule long enough, and Alfrid had been his tool to hurt and cow them. Hardly anyone had stood up openly against Lake-town’s leader. Bard had sometimes wondered why, whenever matters had taken a turn for the worse, but it had never taken long for a reminder to drive home the point that the Master had the power to make someone’s life miserable. It had been a thin line to walk, and Bard still carried the scars from the times he’d overstepped, from punishments and from tasks designed to be dangerous alike. He couldn’t blame anyone for an unwillingness to take that risk. 

Most of the people of Lake-town had stayed quiet. But that didn’t mean they’d agreed, or that they’d forgotten. 

“You’d better leave now,” Bard told Braga, his voice as calm as he could make it. “We’ve heard your message and you’ve heard our answer. It’s all that needs to be said.”

For a moment he thought Braga would try to argue, but the man fortunately appeared to sense the charged mood that had settled. A last contemptuous glare around the square, finishing with a grunt at Tauriel, then he stomped off. Bard didn’t need to give any signals to make a few of the Elven guards shadow him; they were moving before he could even think of it. 

“You think we’ve seen the last of him?” Percy asked from where he stood off to Bard’s right. 

Bard heaved a sigh. “I don’t think we’ll be that lucky.” 

He also wasn’t lucky enough to keep Braga’s appearance in Dale from making larger waves. Throughout the day people came to speak to him, alone and in small groups. At first Bard wasn’t sure what this was about; then he recognised it for what it was: their way to reassure themselves that Dale wasn’t going to go down the same road as Lake-town, and that Bard wouldn’t let it get that far. 

They held a council meeting that evening, mostly to ascertain they all were in agreement over the stance Dale was taking towards Lake-town. If it were just about Dale it would be simple, but by now they also needed to take the Elves and Rohirrim into account, as well as the Dwarves to a lesser extent. It made for a fairly crowded gathering in Bard’s hall and sparked a need for additional chairs, but in the end everybody sat, though Percy was looking rather nervous about Amathiel’s elbow encroaching in his space. 

“Someone needs to make it plain to Alfrid once and for all that he won’t get any gold,” Hilda fumed with a pointed glare at Bard, who did his best to remain impassive. “He’ll only cause trouble, mark my words.”

To her side, Léored nodded vigorously. “He only offers you insult! You could ride to Lake-town and conquer them. We’d support you, we’re in your debt for the shelter you’ve offered us. Just say the word and we’ll ride forth with you. They can’t stand against a full Éored of Rohirrim.”

“The Elves would join such an effort,” Amathiel said before Bard could do anything to slow down Léored’s enthusiasm at the idea. 

Imrahil frowned in disagreement, a rare sight where his sister was concerned. Under normal circumstances they presented a united front, though Bard had by now learned to see the little signs that their opinions differed. If Imrahil couldn’t be bothered to make even a token effort to demonstrate unity, he had to be thoroughly at odds with his sister’s suggestion. 

Bard wasn’t the only one to notice. Leaning forward, her elbows propped up on the armrests of her chair, Amathiel fixed her brother with a firm look. “It may not be an explicit standing order, but surely this falls under the command of protecting Dale.”

“The king has ordered that Dale be protected,” Imrahil argued, “not that we should conquer her neighbours.”

“Just because Ada hasn’t said so-”

“What’s the next step? Would you like to lead a charge at Erebor?” 

Bard fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. Council meetings. He’d always known nothing good could possibly come of them. “Nobody’s marching on the Dwarves,” he said, for the moment simply glad that no Dwarves were actually present. They’d send a runner over to the Lonely Mountain once Dale’s council had come to some kind of decision, out of politeness and sheer diplomatic expedience, but some matters were easier to handle without the volatility of Dwarves added to the mix. Dale had plenty of hot-heads by herself.

“But we could march on Alfrid,” Bain suggested after a glance at Léored to his left. “The Rohirrim are much better warriors than anything he’s got.”

Bard shook his head. “No. What would we gain? I won’t have us spill blood over his greed. Lake-town won’t survive as a settlement for long, they don’t have the people to build a future. The Dwarves will use Dale as their trading intermediaries, as does the Woodland Realm. There’s nothing left for Lake-town to live on. We can simply wait them out until her people settle elsewhere.” 

The fishermen might stay and carve out a living for themselves, but they weren’t who Dale needed to worry about. Those men and women were content to rebuild the life they’d led before the dragon had come and turned their home into fire and ash, and Bard suspected that they couldn’t care less about Alfrid and his aspirations.

“I agree with Lord Bard.” Imrahil said, looking somewhat disconcerted at the admission, which really should have been insulting. Right now Bard was willing to magnanimously overlook it. “The patrols have reported that some have already left Lake-town. I imagine that by winter the rest of the brigands who’ve wandered there will grow tired of unfulfilled promises of riches and they will leave. Don’t give them gold, and don’t waste efforts on aggression.”

“What if they decide to attack us instead?” Sigrid asked. 

Imrahil treated her to a kinder look than most others around the table could have hoped for. He might have little patience for Bard, or indeed the majority of the people, but Sigrid’s earnest efforts at integrating the Elves into Dale’s daily life had gained her considerable goodwill even from that particular cranky Elf lord. “We’re running enough patrols to notice in time, should they decide to make a nuisance of themselves. The fields and the city are well-protected; as long as anyone travelling towards the lake takes precautions, it will be safe.” 

That last was said with a pointed glower at Bard, who cheerfully ignored it. Guards, as far as he was concerned, were a waste of effort that would be far more useful elsewhere. Tauriel kept an eye on him whenever there was no more important task he asked her to do, and that already felt like an egregious exaggeration. Bard wasn’t a king or a prince. He was a lord merely because nobody else wanted to deal with all those issues; killing him would be entirely counter-productive. 

“So you suggest waiting?” Amathiel asked. “Where is the point in this? We might erase this threat!”

“Would you rather risk lives over this when it isn’t necessary?” Imrahil shot back. “We lost enough in the battle against the forces of Dol Guldur, we’re not going to march on a gaggle of swamp bandits and have someone die from a lucky harpoon throw.”

Bard was beginning to suspect that Thranduil had known only too well why he’d left his children in Dale. It was hard to believe that these two had seen centuries fly by and were supposedly wise Elves of noble blood, raised with leadership, courtesy and wisdom in mind. Right now they reminded Bard of bickering fishwives more than anything else.

“How much would it tax our forces if we increase the patrols?” he asked before Amathiel and Imrahil could truly settle into an argument. “I remember you telling me that we’re stretched fairly thin.”

Imrahil exchanged a swift glance with Léored, who looked uneasy at the attention. Their young Rohir had grown into his position as leader of his people over the past weeks, but there was still a heavy imbalance between him and Imrahil when it came to their duties as the captains of Dale’s military force. 

“We’d have to rearrange a few patrol routes if we want to widen our surveillance,” Imrahil eventually answered for both of them. “If the Rohirrim take over the road to the Long Lake, the Elves can cover the high passes. Until the winter makes travel harder, it might be a wise precaution.”

Bard nodded. “Then let’s do that.”

“So you’ll just sit still?” Amathiel demanded. 

“What would you have us do, charge at them with swords drawn and banners flying?” Bard snapped back. “That might make for a good tale, but I’ve found that reality doesn’t measure up. We’ll wait for the winter months to show them that there’s no future in Lake-town, at least not under Alfrid’s leadership. Dáin has signed contracts with us, so there won’t be any trade for them.”

Lake-town would dry up and fade away without that lifeline to support them. A harsh thought, and yet one Bard was willing to accept as the best alternative they had, even if it destroyed what was left of his birthplace and that of his children. 

Resting his hands flat on the table before him, he looked at the others, trying to gauge their mood. Percy and Hilda would support the decision, or they’d have spoken up without doubt. Bain, too, would stand with him on this. Sigrid’s face was harder to read, but if she disagreed, she seemed willing to keep her counsel for now. At the other end of the table Amathiel’s frown didn’t need any further examination, and Léored, too, looked unhappy at the thought of sitting tight in Dale rather than riding out to heroically conquer. 

“We’ll wait,” Bard repeated and got a minute nod from Imrahil in agreement. “Wait, and be ready to stand against them if necessary.”

“In that case I hope the necessity won’t come before Dale is ready for it.” Arms crossed, Amathiel leaned back in her chair. “Lord Thranduil will be informed?”

As if Imrahil wouldn’t take care of that if Bard somehow decided not to. “I’ll send a bird, unless you volunteer to carry a written message for me?”

Much to his surprise, Amathiel nodded. “I shall travel on to the Woodland Realm as soon as the rain lets up and the road dries out. A message is acceptable.” 

“Your presence will be missed,” Bard told her and managed not to smirk, though he could hardly believe his luck. He wasn’t opposed to Thranduil’s children, and in Imrahil’s case, he’d even developed a bit of fondness of the irritating, prissy bastard. But Amathiel and her stubborn insistence on elbowing her way into the affairs of Dale and the Rohirrim kept rubbing him the wrong way. 

Amathiel just raised an eyebrow in response, the underlying tone clearly not lost on her. 

“Are you planning to head west again?” Imrahil asked, a frown on his face. 

“What if I do?”

His frown deepened. “If you winter in Imladris again-”

“What of it?” she interrupted. “It’s none of your concerns.” 

“Amathiel-”

She said something sharp in Sindarin that Bard barely understood, something about distance and permission, then rose from her seat. “Imrahil,” she hissed, then turned to Bard and gave him the barest of nods. “Lord Bard.”

Before Bard could say anything in turn, she was already sweeping out of the room in a flurry of wide sleeves and flowing skirts. 

Looking into the wide-eyed faces around the table - some more, some less - Bard just shrugged. Then he got up as well and went to pour everybody another cup of ale. 

“Elves,” he heard Sigrid murmur, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as he refilled her cup. 

“Elves,” he agreed.

***

No more messages came from the settlement down at the lake for the next few weeks. With the patrols increased, any changes would have been noticed sooner than before, but the scouts had nothing to report that even hinted at an attack. They picked off occasional bandits in the hills, but none managed to come close to Dale and those who tried were sent back with their one warning, marked as having been given their chance to reconsider whether following this path in life - and this leader - was a wise thing to do.

It helped to quiet down the tension in Dale that had risen after Braga’s visit. The people were no fools; they knew that Alfrid had his eyes set on the gold in the Dwarves’ vaults and that he wouldn’t give up on his avarice so easily. Distraction did the rest. A company of Elves arrived from the Woodland Realm, in part to strengthen the local garrison, in part to replace them and allow some of the Elves to rotate back home. There seemed to be a certain level of interest among Thranduil’s people to serve in Dale for a little while, despite the vicinity of Dwarves and the improvised accommodations. Bard suspected that in the end it came down to curiosity and the need to confirm with their own eyes that whatever gossip they’d heard was true. 

The new Elves brought supplies with them, more sophisticated this time than just food and fabrics. Someone up in Mirkwood - Bard had his suspicions - had decided that Dale urgently required carpets woven from soft, coloured yarns. It was all Bard could do to shake his head at the extravagance, though he did take one of the carpets for his own bedroom. He was thoroughly pleased that it clashed with the froofy cushions; it hadn’t been easy to find the right one.

In addition to the carpets, the Elves also brought a few horses from Thranduil’s stables for their own requirements. Among them was Tilda’s foal, now old enough to be weaned from its mother. 

Bard went to see the horses, Tilda practically quivering with excitement by his side. Léored had decided to come along as well, ostensibly to keep her and Bard company, and not at all because he was eager to see Elven horses. He’d settled well into Bard’s little household, enough so that the initial temporary arrangement of having him stay had turned into a permanent one. Bard wasn’t going to complain about it; Léored wasn’t causing any trouble and Bard’s children liked him, so he was happy to provide the boy with what home he could offer.

“The little lady!” one of the Elves in the stable called out when he spotted them, followed by something in rapid Sindarin. Tilda happily chatted back in the same language, leaving Bard and Léored to pretend like they knew what was happening. Fortunately it wasn’t too difficult to guess from what words Bard understood; a few laughs and smiles later, a beaming Tilda was led towards one of the stalls. 

“That’s an excellent colt,” Léored said after they’d all had a first look and Bard had dutifully praised the animal. “He’ll make a grand mount and sire good offspring.”

Bard froze, his gaze snapping to the foal’s rear. Tilda _had_ mentioned that her gift was a stallion, but he’d assumed that the Elves would take care of that particular detail. “She’s not going to ride a stallion.”

“You want to geld him?” Léored sounded absolutely appalled at the mere idea. “But why? Think about what she could do with such a horse! She’s told me that he’s from the Elvenking’s personal stable, even in Rohan you’d have a hard time finding such a horse.” 

“It’s still a stallion we’re talking about.” Folding his arms, Bard rested them the top of the stall’s barrier as he watched Tilda pet her foal’s dark coat. “Even if it’s a good horse, it’s far too dangerous.”

Léored looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “She’ll manage,” he said firmly and ducked under the boards to get into the stall. A hand held out, he slowly approached to let the horse sniff him before he carefully patted the arched neck. Tilda stepped aside just far enough to let him reach more easily, and soon they both were far more interested in brushing and petting the foal than any of Bard’s concerns. 

Horses. Why did Tilda have to be so fascinated with horses? She’d always been easiest to please with little carved toy horses, and Sigrid had even made her a new stuffed horse out of rags in the summer to replace the one that had been lost in the devastation of Lake-town. But toys were one thing; a stallion, even young, was quite another. 

“I don’t think you need to be concerned,” Tauriel told him later when she accompanied him on his daily round through Dale and picked up on his mood. “Elven horses aren’t dangerous to their riders.”

“Not to Elves maybe. But to someone who doesn’t have that special touch with animals? She can get a crow to come and deliver a message once out of every three or four tries she makes. That’s not enough to make a horse with a temper safe for her.” Bard stopped briefly to let a cart filled with barrels pass before them on Steep Street, feeling a flash of almost nostalgia at the sight. Life had been much simpler when barrels had been all he’d had to handle. 

They resumed their walk, heading down towards the old market at a brisk pace. “Lord Thranduil wouldn’t have given such a gift to your daughter if there was any threat,” Tauriel said. “You worry too much.”

Bard glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want Tilda to get trampled, that seems reason enough to worry.”

“The horse won’t harm her,” Tauriel insisted. “Lord Thranduil must have spoken to it, and the stable hands will continue that work. There won’t be any risk to her.” 

Heaving a sigh, Bard stopped at the ruins of one of the old towers that had once upon a time carried a heavy windlance. He could still see the remnants of the rusting steel frame, bent and broken amidst the shattered stones. Rebuilding was already scheduled, but for now more practical concerns took precedence before they could tackle defensive structures that weren’t needed immediately. “You’re certain, even with a stallion?”

She nodded. “I am, but if you’d rather have the word of the stablemaster, I’m certain he’ll speak to you.”

Bard turned his head to look at her. Tauriel had carved out a niche for herself in Dale as Bard’s sometimes guard, sometimes advisor, but it was easy enough to tell that she still didn’t feel as though her standing was secure. Too often did he see her hesitate before giving an opinion or remain silent when it was plain she had thoughts on the matter. Sigrid was the one who’d managed to make her open up the most; Tauriel wore one of the ribbons gifted from her even now, threaded into one of her slender braids in a flash of green against her copper hair. 

“I trust you,” he said firmly. “No need to ask anyone else.”

A sudden softness crossed her face, gone quickly enough that he might have imagined it. “My Lord…”

Always with that lordship, as if it made him a different person. Bard wondered if being a lord meant he could tell people not to bother with that nonsense, but he had the vague feeling that it would defeat the entire purpose to give such an order. 

“If you say it’s safe for her, it’s enough.” And it was, at that. He had no reason to think that Tauriel would risk his children’s lives or well-being in any way. She’d been the one to rescue Sigrid and Tilda from the ruins of Lake-town when he hadn’t been able to keep them safe. That alone was enough to make Bard ready to listen to her, and she hadn’t done anything to make him doubt her ever since he had fetched her from the Mountain. 

The half-crumbled tower before them seemed to suddenly be of vast interest to her, and Bard left her to her thoughts. He just turned left to continue his round, down along a few barely damaged houses that looked as if their former inhabitants had simply gotten up and left one day, and might be back at any time. After a few moments he could hear the deliberate fall of Tauriel’s footsteps behind him.

“You never asked why Lord Thranduil had to banish me,” she said eventually.

Bard slowed down enough to let her draw up beside him. “Does it matter?”

He’d never asked what she had done to be banished from Mirkwood. There had been a few hints from Imrahil about disobedience, and he’d caught a rumour or two about some kind of entanglement with Legolas, though nobody seemed sure about the details. But whatever the reason for her exile was, Bard was convinced that Thranduil would not keep it a secret if it was a question of safety in any way. 

Another matter of trusting in someone. He found himself doing so quite often these days, as startling as it still was. In Lake-town, trust had been dangerous when the Master’s spies had been everywhere, just waiting for a misstep. 

Tauriel bowed her head, her fingers twitching as if yearning for something to hold. It was a nervousness Bard only ever saw from her when there were no clear-cut duties for her to perform. “It should matter,” she offered.

Bard shrugged. “The way I see it, you wouldn’t be here if anyone thought of you as a risk. So I’m going to put whatever made Thranduil exile you down to business between you and him. If you want me to know, I’m going to listen. But I’m not going to ask you, or him either.”

Her eyes on him, Tauriel released a slow breath, unusually audible for an Elf. “I don’t know whether to call this kind or foolish.”

Bard sidestepped to avoid a heap of rubble that still blocked part of the street. One day they’d have all of Dale cleaned of the destruction Smaug had wrought, but it would take time. “I’d call it wise,” he said with enough aplomb to draw the beginnings of a smile from her. “I’ve avoided a headache from trying to understand Elves and their behaviour, and I’ve gained a capable Elf for Dale. What else could I want?”

She studied him with the same expression she usually reserved for guards who were being obtuse, then let the smile grow wider. “Nothing much, I wager.”

***

One of the first repairs in Dale the Dwarves had performed had been the main belfry up on the city's highest point, right by the ruins of the Great Hall. "It's about communication," Balin had explained when Bard had questioned the priority. "From Erebor the signal will be easy to see if you use flags during the daytime or torches at night, and a warning bell can be heard throughout Dale if it's placed up there. Same goes for any signals from us, you've got a clear view up to Ravenhill and to the main gate." 

It had made plenty of sense at the time, and with so many other matters on his mind, Bard hadn't given it another thought. The belfry had been repaired, the bells had been replaced and these days an Elf and a member of Dale's militia spent their guard duty up there to keep an eye on the city's surroundings. So far there hadn't been any reports beyond announcements of approaching travelers. 

Until now, when the ringing of the warning bells cut through the clear morning air. 

"What's going on?" Bard demanded to know the moment he spotted Kyrre, one of the guard captains. Around them Elves, Rohirrim and people of Dale were scrambling for their posts on the walls, most of them looking just as startled as Bard had been to hear the bell and as if they, too, had still been in bed at the time.

"One of the patrols is under attack, they're downriver at the ford. The Elves say they're-"

A group of Rohirric warriors already in armour thundered past them on their horses with Léored at their head, riding as fast as the cobbled streets allowed. Down below, Bard could see another unit already crossing the bridge before Dale's gates and race for the River Running's ford a league further downriver. 

"- that they're outnumbered, we're sending riders as backup. Right now it doesn't look like an attack on the city but…" Kyrre shrugged. "We figured better safe than sorry."

"You won't get any disagreement from me on that. Set a flag up on the belfry to signal the Dwarves to be on their guard, they can't see the ford so they won't know what's happening." Bard gave Kyrre a swift pat to the shoulder, then rushed across the square and quickly scaled the steep steps leading up to the ramparts that surrounded the citadel. From there he could overlook the entire stretch of the valley, from Erebor down along the River Running until it joined the shimmer of the Long Lake in the distance.

He could just make out two groups of shadows downriver, one chasing the other. His hands on the cold stones of the wall, Bard narrowed his eyes and focused on the movements of the first group. In his mind he willed them to move more quickly, shake off that second group that followed them, but no matter how hard he wished for it, the distance shrunk instead and the first unit of Rohirrim still was far from reaching them. 

"I've got archers positioned all along the walls," Imrahil told him, coming to a halt at Bard's left. He was in his armour already, and the hard shine of metal made Bard's fingers itch for a bow. Pointless, he knew, when there wasn't anyone to fight right now and his attention was supposed to be on the great picture rather than what an arrow could hit. Still he curled his hands against the rough stones in a flash of frustration. 

"What about the gates?" he asked. 

"All closed except for the southern gate. A company's stationed there." 

"Good, keep that one open as long as possible, we want to give the patrol an escape route."

Imrahil glanced at him. "They won't get that far," he said, his voice perfectly calm and steady. "Their horses are more tired than those of their attackers. If they're lucky, they'll make it across the river, that might buy them enough time for the Rohirrim to reach them."  
Pushing away from the wall, Bard turned to face him. "How can you be that unconcerned?" he demanded, anger seeping into the question. "They're under attack, Dale might come under attack - don't you care? Are we that unimportant to you?"

Imrahil gave a delicate snort of derision. "Would you rather see me panic and lose my head? The city is as safe as it can be, and no enemies beyond that one group have been spotted so far. It's folly enough to put the entire town on alert for something that's going to be dealt with well beyond the walls, one way or another."

"One way or another?" Bard repeated, not sure whether he wanted to believe his ears. "I'm sure that's exactly what the patrol wants to hear!" Ten scouts who had been riding a wide perimeter around Dale for the past two days and who should have returned safely that evening. Ten, whose lead over their pursuers was almost gone. 

"It's what they need to be aware of. What help can be reasonably dispatched is on the way, and the attackers will be well outnumbered at that point. I could withdraw the archers from the walls and it wouldn't make a difference." Imrahil shook his head, his lips pressed together in annoyance. "At least not where the outcome of that fight is concerned. It might send your people into a headless panic just because those fools had to sound the bells."

It took plenty of effort to stay where he was, though Bard still squared his shoulders and raised his chin defiantly. "One of those fools is one of yours."

"And I'll be having words with him once this has been dealt with." Imrahil shook his head and rolled his eyes. "But if you want to treat this as an actual assault on the city, by all means go and waste more resources on panicking the population." 

"I'm not going to waste anything. I'm going to go and help." Pushing himself away from the wall, Bard briskly headed for the steps. "I need a horse!" he called down into the square, where plenty of soldiers were milling in semi-organised groups. 

A firm grip on his upper arm forced him to an abrupt halt. "You'll do nothing of the sort," Imrahil hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

Bard tried to shake off his hand, but Imrahil's hold only tightened enough to probably leave bruises. "Those are my people! I'm not going to take orders from you, Princess."

"You're not going to needlessly endanger yourself in a fight where you'll be all but useless!" As far as Elvish anger went, Imrahil fell far short of his father's chilling ire, but the sudden bright flash of it was still enough to momentarily give Bard pause, if only to evaluate his options. 

"It's going to be over before I can get there anyway, you said so yourself," he countered and once more struggled against Imrahil's hold, putting enough determination behind it this time that the Elf let him go. "I'm the Lord of Dale, those are my people."

"And you'll only be in the way if you go!" Imrahil looked as though he were ready to spit at Bard's feet if it weren't so ill-mannered. "I don't have time for this. Tauriel, stay by his side. We can't have the Lord of Dale go haring off into danger just because he needs to prove a foolish point."

"If that's what he wants," Tauriel's voice came from somewhere above, and Bard needed a second to spot her on the roof of the guard tower a few steps to their right. He hadn't seen her there earlier, but by now he was accustomed to Elves soundlessly appearing when he wasn't expecting them. 

"I don't care what he wants. Make sure he stays within the city walls." With enough flourish to send his cloak billowing, Imrahil turned and stalked along the wall towards a group of archers, clearly dismissing their talk as pointless to continue. 

"Bastard," Bard growled, loud enough that the Elves around them were bound to catch his words. 

Tauriel hopped down from the roof and landed before him in a nimble crouch. "Lord Thranduil has acknowledged paternity, so that wouldn't be accurate," she said, and Bard thought he saw just a fraction of a smile in her eyes. Usually she and Imrahil got along reasonably well, so it was highly vindicating to know that she, too, thought the pompous arse was exaggerating.

"That only makes it worse if you ask me." Bard looked south again where the two groups of riders were now almost joined together, and still so far from the river and its protection, and even further from the aid the Rohirrim would bring. "I'm not staying here."

Tauriel nodded. "Then I'll come with you."

"No." Bard shook his head and swiftly turned towards the stairs. "I need you to stay with my children. I know nothing's going to happen to them, but… please. Watch them until I'm back." They'd be safe within Dale's walls, he knew that. A handful of raiders wouldn't be able to get anywhere close to the gates, let alone past them. But he'd thought that they'd be safe in Lake-town, he'd thought they'd be safe in Dale while the Elves' army stood before its walls. He needed to be sure, and Tauriel had protected them once already when all else had failed. 

Indecision was plain in Tauriel's eyes. "You shouldn't go alone, Imrahil is right about that."

Bard was already halfway down the steps. "It's going to be over before I get there."

She didn't look happy but gave a terse nod. "Then I'll guard your children until you can do so yourself again, you have my word on that."

Which Elves didn't give lightly, so Bard knew that for the great favour it was. "Thank you," he told her, remembered to sketch that quick nod he'd seen the Elves do in lieu of a full bow, and went to find a horse. 

Nobody else questioned him when he rode out through the gates, not that he'd have let them stop him. This wasn't about saving the patrol - if two companies of Rohirrim couldn't do that, he would hardly make a difference - but about his responsibility. He'd decided to set the parameters for the territory they were surveying on a regular basis, so he was the one who'd caused the patrol to be where they'd come under attack. Handling the aftermath was his task to perform. 

Spurring the horse into a gallop, he focused on the dusty road that followed the course of the river, Thranduil's words about duties and expectations at the back of his mind. This probably wasn't what he had meant, but it was how Bard chose to interpret his advice. If that didn't match up, then Thranduil would just have to be less nebulous next time. His people, his decisions. His duty to face the consequences and hope that others hadn't paid the price for his mistake.

He couldn't see the riders ahead of him now; the road was following the curve of the mountain ridge as it tapered off. It would take another mile or so before he'd have a clear view of the ford again, and even longer until he'd be within at least an arrow's distance. There was nothing he could do, and that awareness sat heavily on his shoulders. 

When he heard the rapid pounding of hooves behind him, he twisted around in the saddle only to catch a glimpse of the shine of Elven armour. It was enough to make him resolutely look straight ahead. 

"You damned fool!" Imrahil yelled as soon as he was within earshot. "What do you think you're doing?"

Bard judged the distance yet to cover and spurred his horse into a faster run. He was halfway to the ford now and getting to the curve where the road twisted between huge rocks that had tumbled from the Mountain above. 

"Stop!" Imrahil commanded, the sound of his horse drawing closer, then repeated the order in Sindarin. Bard's horse slowed so suddenly that he was thrown forward against the mare's neck, his hands buried in the shaggy mane by sheer reflex to keep himself from flying off. 

"This isn't the time for games!" he shouted back, scrambling for the reins while his horse tossed her head nervously as she picked up on his mood. "Either you go back or you come with me, because I'm riding on ahead!"

"You'll do no such thing!" Imrahil rode up to his side, his expression furious. "You'll wait right here until the guard detachment catches up with us. I'll chain you to a wall by your stubborn neck if that's what it takes!" 

"You'd better wait for the guards for that, Princess," Bard hissed and tried to get his horse moving again, without success. Sodding Elves and their sodding touch of magic. Muttering curses under his breath, he dismounted and began to march. 

Imrahil cut him off immediately, still in the saddle and with the advantage of speed on his side. "Why won't you understand that you can't risk your neck whenever it pleases you?"

"It's my neck!"

"And I'd happily let you break it if that stops you from being such an idiot! This isn't a battle where you need to lead your army!"

Bard stepped forward so suddenly that Imrahil's horse danced backwards, startled by the movement. "You're not going to understand, you'd have to care about the people in the patrol for that, you sodding cold-blooded prick!"

"You comprehend nothing, do you? That's the problem with you accursed mortals, you don't live long enough to develop any kind of sense!" Imrahil swung himself off his horse and stalked towards Bard, who refused to retreat even when the irate Elf came far too close for comfort. "You and I are riding back, and if I've got to throw you over the saddle and tie you to the horse!"

"Stop wasting time! I'm not going to change my mind, Princess, no matter what you-" 

At a sudden Imrahil threw himself at Bard, tackling him. For a confused moment Bard had no idea what was going on, he just struggled for balance, then for air when it was driven out of his lungs by hitting the ground and having Imrahil's full weight land on him a moment later. With a curse he shoved him off and scrambled to his knees.

"You sodding-" he began, then saw the dark arrow stuck low in the Elf's chest. Before his mind could even begin to process what had happened, he felt a punch to his back that pushed him forward. 

His startled breath felt wrong somehow, and while that still confused him, he stumbled with another strike to his left arm.

"Stay down," Imrahil gasped, pushing himself up on hands and knees. "Head down. Get behind that rock. They're up on the ridge."

Bard tried to follow his example but his arm buckled the moment he put any weight on it, and when he hit the stony ground he almost blacked out with the sudden pain. Again he tried and failed, flinching when another arrow struck the ground right in front of him. 

"Now!" Imrahil's voice was commanding enough that Bard actually obeyed him, instinct taking over while his mind was occupied with how much he hurt. Once he was within Imrahil's reach, the Elf grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward and down. "Stay there!"

"I'm not about to run off!" Bard hissed through gritted teeth, black dots dancing before his eyes. His arm felt as though it were on fire, and when he looked he saw the arrow right through it just above the elbow, jagged tip on one side of his arm and oddly mottled fletching on the other. His thoughts latched onto that splash of white; it let him ignore the red-hot heat in his shoulder that was spreading along with the wetness.

"Talking sense, finally," Imrahil panted and dropped down beside him, his face pinched and pale as bright red blood welled up through the scales of his armour where the arrow had pierced it. "Don't move."

"Damn. Thought I'd go for a walk." Bard couldn't manage much more than a groan. His legs felt heavy, so heavy and cold despite the warmth that had been in the air just moments before. An arrow shouldn't do that. Perhaps he should be worried about that, but he couldn't muster the strength. Blinking hard, he tried to focus against the sudden dizziness that made the ground spin madly around him. 

Imrahil coughed, a wet, rasping sound so unlike Elves. "Fool."

It was the last thing Bard heard before the blackness finally swallowed him.

***

"You're dying, Dragonslayer," the dragon sneered. 

Under Bard's boots, countless gold coins shifted with a bright jingle as he tried to take a step forward. In the faint light of the torches along the walls he saw the glittering treasures Erebor stretch into the darkness all around him, with no wall in sight. 

"Dead and soon buried you'll be," Smaug went on, his words dripping satisfaction. His huge body was half covered under coins and jewels, the leathery wings spread wide. "Forever in darkness, just like the gold I've claimed. Forever mine."

"Never yours," Bard ground out, fighting to keep his balance despite the uncertain footing. "No matter what it'll take!"

He couldn't be dying. Why would he be dying? There was far too much still left to do and far too many duties he couldn't abandon. Besides, who'd lead Dale if he was gone? They'd find some poor sod for the role, and Bard feared that he could guess the name even though Bain was still far too young. No-one who wasn't a grown man yet should have to face such tasks. Every day they all saw how hard Léored pushed himself and how much he struggled to fill a place that shouldn't have become his for a decade or more. Bard couldn't do that to Bain, so he simply couldn't be dead.

Gold fell in cascades of gleaming metal as Smaug raised his head and laughter echoed through the vast caverns. "How do you think to escape, wretch? There are no arrows here for you. There's no windlance. There's only the gold and the darkness, and they are mine to command. And even if you had weapons, you could never stop me. That fool Girion failed when he tried, and so did you." The dragon paused, golden eyes narrowing, and stretched his neck until his head hovered right before Bard, so close that his sulphurous breath filled the air. "Girion's get, even more useless than him."

Bard bit the inside of his cheek and struggled to keep still, no matter how quickly his heart pounded and how loudly his instincts were screaming at him to find cover and hide. 

Smaug sniffed him and the ridges of his head flattened in a ripple of uncounted scales. "What's your name, Dragonslayer?"

Bard forced himself not to look away under the dragon's unmoving stare. Names held power, everybody knew that. Under no circumstances would he grant Smaug such a hold on him. And yet the longer he faced the dragon, the harder it was to keep his name from slipping out. 

"Tell me," Smaug growled. The sound reverberated through Bard's bones. "Tell me, Dragonslayer. Bowman, Lake-man. Lord of Dale. Girion's blood, you who have failed to slay me, just as your ancestor failed before you Tell me your name." 

"Never," Bard hissed. 

"You dare defy me?"

Bard raised his chin and tried not to let it show how close he was to trembling from sheer tension.

"Fool," Smaug spat, twisting and turning, and before Bard knew what was happening, an enormous claw struck him in the back and sent him flying. 

He landed hard and slid down the slope of coins, barely catching himself before he could vanish in the darkness and whatever lay waiting there. His back felt as if it were on fire, and his left arm flared with agony when he tried to use it to push himself up again. Briefly he lay still to catch his breath amid the treasures. A cup had tumbled to a halt right before his face and almost blocked his view, its golden rim studded with rubies. 

"Well, Dragonslayer?" he heard Smaug's hiss somewhere further up the mountain of gold. 

Gritting his teeth, Bard forced himself to his knees and then to his feet, eyes firmly screwed shut when the pain made the world spin around him. "You're dead!" he gasped. "You're not real!"

Smaug's wings flicked and gold coins rained down on Bard like hail. "I'm as real as you are, Dragonslayer."

"I killed you!"

"And for that, you'll never be rid of me. One doesn't kill a dragon." With slow steps, Smaug crept closer. "I live on in you, Bowman. As Glaurung the Golden lived on in that doomed fool Túrin Turambar; as Ancalagon the Black lives on in Eärendil the Mariner. You'll bring me with you, wherever you go, and only in death you'll escape me."

Bard tried to retreat, but with every step he sunk deeper into the golden coins. He saw Smaug close the distance between them, felt the heat of the dragon's face against his skin, saw the huge maw open and close around him. 

Everything faded, and only darkness and pain remained.

***

He was surrounded by biting cold. Which made no sense, because wasn't it summer? Yet he was shivering all over, as if he’d fallen into the lake in winter. His back felt as though an icicle had been driven into it. Or a dragon's fang.

"Cold," he murmured, confused why a single word was so draining.

A blessedly warm hand touched his cheek. "Sleep," someone told him and he was drawn against a body that radiated wonderful heat, it was impossible not to follow that order.

***

Without the dust and greyness of age, the colours of Dale were startling in their brightness. Cheerful little flags hung from thin lines stretched across the streets, and flower pots full of red and yellow and pink decorated the windowsills. Apple trees stretched up towards the sun, their branches heavy with fruit. 

All that was missing were the people. 

Bard stood on the balcony of his house and looked down across the lower city, but he couldn't spot a single living being, neither Man nor Elf or Dwarf. Even the ubiquitous birds were missing. Like a heavy blanket, a deep silence covered the town. 

He'd felt this complete stillness in the air once before, over twenty years ago. Back then he'd been full of the foolishness of youth, full of tales of the riches left in Dale that were still there for the taking if only one was brave enough to enter the lost town. Everybody knew about the dangers of coming anywhere near the gates to the Lonely Mountain, but back then he'd been tempted. Poverty had been a great motivator, just like the certainty that just some of that mythical gold would make a wedding with beautiful, kind Kari possible much sooner than it could otherwise be.

On that day he'd walked up the abandoned path from Lake-town, watching out for the faintest sign that the dragon was awake. But the closer he'd come to Dale, the quieter everything had become. At first he hadn't even noticed it, but after a while there hadn't even been bugs and ants anymore even when he'd looked for them, and the silence had weighed heavier and heavier. 

He hadn't reached Dale. By the time he'd caught the first glimpse of her ruins, he'd trembled with the awareness that no living creature willingly came here, and walking further had been impossible. 

Now the sensation of complete and utter quiet was the same. The difference was that back then he hadn't seen the dragon up in the sky. From the distance, Smaug was an almost beautiful creature. Nothing that big should be able to move with such elegance, and nothing so deadly should fly with such freedom. For a little while, Bard watched him soar through the sky in slow, spinning circles. 

He went inside and fetched his bow and a quiver full of arrows, and only felt the slightest resistance when he forced his limbs to move.

If this was Dale of old, there might be a windlance still left somewhere. But that kind of contraption wasn't his weapon, and he knew deep in his heart that he wouldn't find another black arrow. The last of those lay at the bottom of the Long Lake, and there wouldn't be any more of them even if the Dwarves tried to forge them. It was an odd knowledge and he couldn't tell where it came from, and yet he felt the certainty of it deep in his bones.

Once he climbed onto the roof he had an almost unobstructed view of the entire valley. His house was one of the highest in Dale; only the Great Hall's dome stretched higher towards the sky. For now it was enough. Eyes on the dragon, he waited. 

It didn't take long for Smaug to spot him. Bard could tell the moment he was noticed; the dragon suddenly banked hard and came towards Dale, moving with a different kind of purpose than before. 

"Have they done you a favour by keeping you alive, Dragonslayer?" Smaug drawled, landing on the southern guard tower with enough force to make the bell toll. A flex of the huge claws and the sound turned into the screeching of twisting metal, then stopped. "Death would have given you peace. Wouldn't that have been kinder?"

"I won't do you that favour!" Bard shouted, the bow in his hand. Slowly he nocked the first arrow. "If you want to be rid of me, stop coming into my dreams. You aren't welcome here!"

Smaug lashed out with his tail, but no wall crumbled under the onslaught this time. "I'm part of you, Dragonslayer. I don't require an invitation."

"You aren't welcome!" Bard repeated, forcing himself to stand tall despite his instincts telling him to run and hide, that a dragon was nothing he should face. "Not in my dreams, and not in my lands!"

"Your lands, Dragonslayer? Who gave them to you? A Dwarf with neither comprehension nor care for the world beyond his gates, and an Elf too arrogant to deal with anyone not of noble blood."

The words struck deep. Bard knew they didn't hold any truth, but he still found it hard to dismiss them entirely. 

"The Dwarves will soon lose their new gains. They'll delve too far into the shadows, who knows what they'll wake? And the Elves…" Smaug's maw twisted into a grin. "Their time is over. A few might linger, but they'll fade soon enough. Who'll guarantee your lordship then?"

Bard raised the bow. 

Smaug's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you'll achieve with this toy? A mere bow and arrow, is that all you have to stand against me? Are there no more black arrows left for you? Impoverished even in this, are you, Dragonslayer?" 

Throwing back his head, Smaug laughed, the sound shaking Bard to the core. 

A slow breath, then another. Carefully he raised the bow again and made sure the arrow sat right as he drew the string and aimed. No windlance for Bard of Lake-town, for Bard of Dale. A bow and arrow, for Bard the Bowman.

He let the arrow fly once the dragon laughed again. Saw it strike its target, right between the gaping fangs and deep into the mouth where no scales protected the vulnerable flesh from a mere arrow. 

For an endless moment they stared at each other. 

Then Smaug began to roar with pain, destroying the buildings around him as he twisted and slammed into walls and roofs. 

"Begone, Smaug," Bard said as he watched the dragon die once more.

***

He opened his eyes to almost complete darkness; only faint starlight illuminated the room. A strange taste was in his mouth, almost like Sigrid's pea soup, which was odd because he couldn't remember the last time she'd made it. For a moment he thought he could smell it, too, but it was mixed with a clean, herbal scent his mind couldn't identify. He tried to remember where he'd caught that smell before, but the effort was too exhausting and he could feel his eyes slipping shut again. 

"No need to wake just yet," Sigrid told him, her voice firm. "Better if you wait another day."

It sounded reasonable somehow and he attempted to nod. Even that small gesture hurt like fire, so he slipped back into sleep instead.

***

The sun was shining through the open window the next time Bard woke. For a little while he looked at the sky outside, still too sleepy to even turn his head, then realised that if he could see the sun from here, it had to be well past morning and he'd overslept entirely. 

Groaning, he tried to push himself up to sit, but couldn't; the movement alone made him close his eyes and draw a few careful breaths. His entire body felt as though he'd been steering the barge against the current for days without a break; every muscle ached at the slightest movement. 

"Don't try to get up," a voice warned him, and when he fought to raise his head to look, he heard an exaggerated sigh and the rustling of clothes. A moment later Thranduil appeared within his field of vision, oddly enough in his full court robes including the crown. Small red lilies were woven in between the spiky branches this time and looked thoroughly impractical. 

"Why are you here?" Bard asked the first thing that came to mind, puzzled when his voice was barely more than a whisper. Thranduil was supposed to be in Mirkwood and not back in Dale before the harvest. Were there talks to be held between them? Surely someone would have told him about that? Once more he tried to sit up, and managed to push himself onto his side with a monumental effort that turned his brow damp with sweat. A fever? Had to be, he couldn't think of any reason why he'd feel like this. But then why was his chest wrapped in bandages? And his arm? Nothing about that made sense.

Thranduil drew up a low chair and sat down right in front of him so Bard didn't have to crane his neck. "I had urgent matters to attend to in Dale," he said, reaching out to lay his palm against Bard's forehead and frowning. "What do you remember?"

It was good to have a question to focus on. "Pea soup," he said honestly, and after a moment's hesitation added, "and the dragon." Smaug was gone, he reminded himself. Had to be.

The frown on Thranduil's face deepened perceptively and he busied himself with pouring a cup from a pitcher on the small table by the bed. "Do you know where you are?"

That seemed like an odd question, so Bard rolled his eyes. "In my bed," he muttered and accepted the indignity of having Thranduil hold the cup to his lips so he could drink a mouthful of what turned out to be some kind of herbal infusion. 

"You haven't damaged your stubbornness, at least." Thranduil let him have another sip, then put the cup down by the pitcher again. A warm hand cupped his cheek, a grounding point of contact. "Are you aware that you are in Dale?"

"I should hope so. Otherwise you'd have some explaining to do." Drinking had been tiring, so he carefully let himself sink into the cushions again. New ones, he noticed; when had that happened? The cushions had been a light green this morning, not blue. Had someone swapped them out after he'd been dragged out of bed by the bells? Such a shame, now they actually matched the carpet, and that when he’d gone to such lengths to ensure that little bit of annoyance.

The alarm bells. The attack on the patrol. The ride downriver. 

Suddenly it seemed important to sit and Bard struggled to get there, ignoring the aches and pains the effort sent through his body. Thranduil briefly watched, then reached out to lend a hand and together they got him propped up in a more upright position. 

"There was an attack," he gasped, straining to get his breath back under control when even that little bit of movement was almost too much. "And another… or was it the same? I know I rode out, and I think there was someone shooting arrows? I can't quite…" He trailed off, a sudden chill chasing down his spine. "Imrahil! He was out there with me, where is he?"

Thranduil's hand caught his own and held it. "He's reasonably well, if a little irritated" he said. 

"Well, that's new," Bard muttered. "What happened? Did the Rohirrim get to the patrol in time?"

Thranduil nodded. "Though it was a close call. Three were wounded in the fight, but you lost none. Léored has led them well."

"Good, that's… good." It took an unexpected effort to keep his thoughts from scattering completely. "I got shot, didn't I? And more, because an arrow doesn't do this. I feel like I got stomped on by a horse." He paused, frowning. "Did I?"

The expression on Thranduil's face wasn't too hard to read; he was deciding what to say. Eventually he settled for, "The arrows were poisoned, otherwise the consequences to both of you would not have been as grave." His hand tightened around Bard's, just up to the point where it would go from reassuring to painful. "You were fortunate that it was spider venom they used."

Bard managed to raise a highly sceptical eyebrow. "I'm not sure I feel fortunate."

"The healers recognised the symptoms, and they are used to carrying what antidotes we have found over the years." Slowly running his thumb over the back of Bard's hand, Thranduil met his eyes. "You and I would not be talking otherwise, so you should consider yourself fortunate indeed. As do I."

It was hard to think of something to say in reply to that, so Bard remained silent as he turned that bit of news over in his head. He'd come close to death more often than he cared to remember - especially in the past year - but to some extent those moments had been under his control. When they'd faced the army of Orcs, he'd been able to fight, and even against Smaug he hadn't been helpless. But this? A poisoned arrow in the back? There was nothing he could have done save remain hidden behind the walls of Dale, and that was simply unthinkable. 

"Imrahil's got to be so pissed off," he said eventually. "They must have expected me to ride out, or the ambush would never have worked."

Thranduil chuckled. "He may have said something to that effect." 

Bard gave him a hopeful look. "You wouldn't want to take him back home with you, would you?"

"I quite like the current arrangements. He has become much mellower ever since he's had to face the practicalities of command and responsibility." Once more Thranduil poured him a cup of that herbal concoction, his mien turning stern when Bard eyed it dubiously. The taste wasn't unpleasant, but it tasted far too much of medicine and thus carried far too many unwelcome memories. In the end he did drink it, and even accepted a second cup when the persistent thirst he felt didn't lessen just yet. 

"How long is this going to take?" he asked, exhaustion creeping into his limbs like lead once again despite the sore muscles. The beginnings of a headache were settling right behind his eyes, though it was bearable as long as he didn't attempt to actually move. 

Thranduil busied himself with the sheets long enough that Bard couldn't help but wonder whether something deeper was wrong. He didn't feel worse than with the fierce fever he'd caught a few years ago, and this time at least he didn't have three small children to take care of while the world spun around him. But Thranduil’s behaviour was decidedly odd. 

"I'd estimate a week before you can comfortably leave your bed," Thranduil finally said. "You've slept for quite a long time, but the effects still linger. Speaking of which, there's a council session in progress downstairs that I should attend so we can deal with the aftermath." He shot Bard a wry smile. "If you wish, I can have a cot set up for you so you can participate."

Council sessions truly weren't on Bard's list of favourite things to do, but he wasn't sure how he felt about missing one when it dealt with something he'd been directly involved in. On the other hand, right now he'd probably fall asleep within moments and that would just make everyone feel bad. 

"Don't frown so, it was a mere joke." Leaning in to cup his face, Thranduil placed a light kiss on his brow, then against his lips, chaste and reassuring at the same time. "You shan't go anywhere until you can do so under your own power," he said as he stood and adjusted his robes with a few practiced tugs so the flowing lines sat just right. It was quite a pretty view, though Bard wasn't in the shape to properly appreciate it. 

Almost as soon as Thranduil had left, Tilda traipsed into the room, a cautious smile on her face that widened as soon as she saw that Bard was awake. "Da!" she called, beaming when he managed a smile in response. "You're up!"

"Not quite up," he corrected, pushing himself to lift his right arm and hug her back as firmly as he could when she threw herself at him, her little face pressed against his neck. "Are you all right?"

"Now that you're awake again," she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his and then leaning back with a frown on her face. "You're scratchy."

Bard raised his right hand to his face, encountering more than just a day or two's worth of beard. "Tilda," he said carefully, "how long have I been sleeping?"

She sighed and snuggled back down again. "A week. We've been so worried, even the Elves though they've been trying not to show it. But when you know what to look for, it's easy to spot. They get this pinched, inward look when they're worried, almost like they're trying to see inside their own head."

A week. That was… It explained a few things, and it made him tighten his hold on Tilda to reassure both her and himself. If he'd been unconscious for so long, then it had been a closer call than he'd realised. 

"Tauriel and Thranduil told us you'd be fine," Tilda went on, "but I think they weren't sure about it at first. They only started smiling again two days ago. But Sigrid was sure it would all be all right from the beginning, because you're too stubborn." Her hold around him tightened and he winced when her hand brushed against the bandages at his left shoulder blade. It felt sore, as if he'd deeply bruised the spot. 

"Where's Sigrid?" he asked her. "And Bain?"

"They're talking with Thranduil and Dáin. Léored's there too, but it sounded boring so I came to see how you are." Tilda leaned back a little, one leg drawn up so she could fit on the narrow space between him and the edge of the bed. "Tauriel said I should come and keep you company, but that I mustn't keep you awake if you're tired. Are you?"

"A little," he admitted but managed to raise his hand high enough to stroke her hair a few times before he had to drop it again. "But I'm happy that you're here."

She gave him a bright smile. "I'm happy too," she told him. "It's far nicer here with you now that you're no longer sleeping. And they're only talking about Lake-town downstairs, and about how Thranduil marched there with his army."

He'd been about to doze off again, so it took a few moments for his mind to parse the meaning of what Tilda was saying. "He did _what_?"

Tilda blinked at him. "He went to Lake-town and chased Alfrid away. I think he wanted to tell you that himself, though."

Bard heaved a sigh. Too much, too complicated. He should be figuring this out, but it was difficult enough to stay awake, let alone think this all through and arrive at useful conclusions. "I'll ask him later. Can you make sure he comes back please?"

She nodded. "Of course. I promise."

Smiling when she carefully nestled close again, Bard gave in to the inevitable and drifted off to sleep once more, thoughts of whatever was going on downstairs slipping away from him like a swift current. 

The sun was no longer shining through the window when he half-woke again to the sensation of the mattress shifting before him. A quick hug from small arms, along with the familiar scent of Tilda, then he thought he heard the soft pattern of her steps on the wooden floor. She said something that was too low for him to understand, then the door fell shut. Absently he wondered how much time had passed, and whether it was even still the same day. The idea of having possibly slept through an entire day and night should have worried him, and the absence of that was worrying in itself, not that he could really muster the strength to be concerned about it.

"It's a good thing that you're lucky, since you're so entirely unreasonable," he suddenly heard Imrahil's voice from somewhere by the window, startling enough to make him flinch, albeit very slowly. Cracking one eye open, he saw the Elf’s silhouette against the dusk-tinted sky.

"Come to haunt me, have you?" he asked and drew up the sheets a little as an added layer of protection. This wasn't the kind of position he was comfortable with when it came down to facing arrogant Elf lords, especially not when they might just inform him that they'd told him this would happen.

"I pray that the Valar will never set that as my task." Imrahil moved forward with that faintly disconcerting Elven ability to not make a sound even when his boots touched the floor. "I also pray that you'll see reason now."

Rolling his eyes didn't take too much effort, so Bard resorted to that with vigour. "You were there and we still got shot. I'm not sure I see your point." He drew a deep breath, cautious not to shift his shoulder and upset the muscles in his back around the spot where the arrow had struck him. "You're well?"

Imrahil waved his hand dismissively. "Merely a graze, it's hardly worth mentioning. Elves heal quickly."

Bard clearly remembered where Imrahil had been hit. Any time an arrow got anywhere near someone's chest, it couldn't be called a graze even under the most tolerant circumstances. But he wasn't going to protest; it was irritating enough that Imrahil was already up and about again when Bard still found it a challenge to scratch his own ear. 

"You're aware of the outcome of the skirmish?" Imrahil asked eventually, arms now folded tightly across his chest. 

He nodded, then regretted the move when it felt as if his brain were sloshing about in his head. "Your father told me, but only a little bit." And perhaps he shouldn't have said that; normally he was careful not to call him anything but Lord Thranduil around Imrahil, but right now it was hard to pay attention to those kinds of details. Then again, he hadn't had the impression so far that Imrahil disliked the idea of Bard sharing Thranduil's bed on occasion. It was more a case of general disapproval of Bard that didn't come down to particulars and to what Bard was doing with Thranduil in the bedchamber. Or the hayloft. Or that one rather memorable time in Mirkwood's baths. 

"We've reviewed the patrol schedules and routes to prevent this from happening again. With the Rohirric forces, more of my Elves can be moved to stationary lookout posts so a greater area can be under constant surveillance. Lord Léored has promised me their full cooperation in this."

Bard tried another sigh, since the first one had gone over relatively well. "Princess, stop babbling. It's really not like you and that's confusing, and right now confusion isn't something I need, I'm dizzy enough already." 

Imrahil's expression turned closer to his accustomed disdain. "Clearly, since you still can't remember how to properly address me."

"I'll call you Princess as long as you're this fussy." Bard attempted a shrug, but his shoulder very much wasn't happy with that and he was busy keeping the pain from his face for a few moments. "Somehow I don't think that's going to change anytime soon."

Imrahil shook his head. "Should have cut out your tongue and blamed it on the raiders," he muttered. "You were unconscious already, you'd never have known."

Bard fought the urge to stick his tongue out. "You like me, admit it."

That earned him a glare that would have felled a lesser man. "I fear the poison has addled your mind."

"Whatever you say, Princess." He very carefully maneuvered himself a little more onto his right side, relieved when that sparked neither vertigo nor pain beyond the burning ache that had settled into every muscle in his body. 

Imrahil continued to glare at him for a few more moments, then turned to head for the door, apparently done with whatever had brought him here. Granted an unobstructed view, Bard noticed that he didn't move with quite the same grace as Elves normally did, as if his own muscles were just as tired as Bard's. Apparently an Elf's ability to recover swiftly didn't make up for everything. 

"Imrahil," he said, waiting until the Elf paused in the open door. "I'm glad that you're well."

For a little while Imrahil studied him. Then he bowed his head, cupped his hand to his chest in the Elvish salute and left. 

No more visitors seemed to be waiting, so Bard shifted about until he was as comfortable as he'd get anytime soon. The new cushions were distracting; they smelled a lot more like flowers and sunshine than the previous set, which hadn't carried any scent anymore for a while now. Leave it to Elves to perfume their bedding. At least it was all soft and smooth and comfortable; right now Bard was willing to accept a lot for that. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent dozing and napping, which really was all he was up to at the moment. Staying awake and focused was challenge enough, and he felt too drained to waste what little energy he had on staring out the window. It wasn't even an interesting view, just sky and the Lonely Mountain's southeastern ridge in the distance. 

Sigrid came by a few times to check on him, once together with an Elf who forced even more of that Elvish herbal concoction down his throat, then helped with the resulting indignities. Not his favourite way to spend his time, so Bard tried to sleep as much as he could in the hope that this would end his confinement to bed sooner.

Later he woke once more at the sound of the door swinging open. Outside the sky was turning dark already and the air from the open window had lost its warmth. Even under the sheets he felt cold. 

"Don't bother waking up," Thranduil told him. 

Bard cracked one eye open out of sheer principle to show that he wasn’t quite as feeble as they all insisted, and was rewarded with an exasperated sigh. 

"You truly shouldn't be awake."

"Yes, well, we all do things we shouldn't," he murmured. "At least this time it wasn't my city where you turned up with an army."

Silence, then, "We'll talk about this."

"Definitely." Yawning, Bard buried his face against the cushions again. "Later."

"Later," Thranduil agreed. Bard heard him move about the room, his steps audible which meant he had to be doing it deliberately. A quiet noise came from the table in the corner, as if a cup or a plate was being set down. "How are you?"

Bard considered his answer for a moment. "Tired," he murmured. "Cold."

Somewhere on the other side of the bed, Thranduil hummed with contemplation, then the mattress dipped and Bard felt the sheets being lifted as he slipped into bed. A few moments to remove all the cushions that had kept him from moving about too much and he was deftly drawn back into Thranduil's embrace, the touch of bare skin so wonderfully warm and calming. 

"Better, I should hope," Thranduil said, one palm coming to rest flat against Bard's chest as if he were looking to measure his heartbeat. With a contented sigh Bard settled down under the sheets and was asleep within moments.

***

The next few days turned into an exercise of restraint. At first there wasn't much Bard could actually do; vertigo and weak knees conspired to keep him in bed unless there was someone around to help him, which was an embarrassment he could do without. So he grudgingly allowed the Elvish healers to fuss over his injuries, allowed Thranduil to try and drown him with the sheer amount of tea, and allowed Sigrid - albeit less grudgingly - to supply him with soup. When nobody was looking for once he convinced Tilda to sneak him some cheese, which he wasn't permitted and which thus felt like a small victory even though it made his stomach ache for hours afterwards. 

It only got worse when Bard slowly regained his strength and he still wasn't allowed to get up. Pointless and a complete exaggeration, in his opinion, not that anyone bothered to ask him. There was no reason why he should have to lie flat and stare at the ceiling all day when he could easily get around under his own power again. Mostly, at least; he wasn't about to brave the stairs by himself just yet, he knew that wouldn't be smart no matter how irritating it was to have to be carried up and down. But even that was an indignity he was willing to suffer as long as it got him out of that sodding room for a bit, even if it was just for a meeting with Dáin, Thranduil and Léored to figure out just what to do about Lake-town.

"I still can't believe you went and annexed them," he muttered when Thranduil helped him back upstairs afterwards. Bard was pretending to tackle the steps by himself, Thranduil was pretending that he wasn't carrying practically all of Bard's weight, and both were pretending not to notice what the other was doing. "I don't pay attention for one measly week and you go and conquer helpless towns."

Thranduil deftly navigated them around the landing. "There wasn't much conquering to be done. They had a good look at my army and decided that joining Dale was in their best interest. After casting out that revolting little creature, of course."

"Doesn't change the final result much." They reached the upper floor and Bard defiantly dug in his heels when Thranduil aimed them towards the dungeon they were keeping him in these days. "Balcony. I'm not getting into bed again, it's the middle of the afternoon." 

He didn't have to look at Thranduil to envision him rolling his eyes. Good. Let the Elf be a bit irritated too, after going off to take over an entire sodding town and present it to Bard as some bizarre kind of gift. Turnabout was fair play.

"For a little while," Thranduil eventually conceded. "But I'll be the judge of when you're to be returned to your rest."

Bard cheerfully ignored that in favour of the prospect of sun, sky and fresh air. Perhaps he could manage to negotiate his way into a trip to the kitchen later so he could have his supper at an actual table. Sure, Sigrid and Bain had threatened to tie him to the bedpost this morning when he'd made an escape attempt and gotten as far as halfway down the hallway, but they knew him a lot better in that regard than Thranduil did.

Once settled on the narrow bench on the balcony, Bard leaned back against the wall and soaked up the warm sunlight on his face while he watched the activity down in the main square. No Elves were splashing about in the fountain, fortunately; they'd mostly taken to the newly finished baths, though some still insisted on performing their ablutions out in the open. Bard suspected they liked to have an audience. Plenty of people in Dale were appreciative, if the whistles whenever that particular sight occurred were anything to go by.

"I should hand Lake-town over to you," he said, watching Tauriel escort Sigrid and Tilda across the square for their daily training. Bain and Léored trailed after them at some distance, heads bent together in conversation. Daggers seemed to be the weapons of choice today, if the lack of bows and swords in that little group was any indication. 

Thranduil turned about to lean back against the balcony's stone-carved railing. "Have you forgotten that you've just called the suggestions we've proposed to you reasonable?"

"Oh, I haven't forgotten. I like the idea of resettling those who want to stay and actually work for a living at the new docks, rebuilding's going to be easier there and it gives us a workforce. But it's going to be another year or two, and I was really looking forward to finally having everything settle down a bit." He cast Thranduil his best irreverent smirk. "Let your hair turn grey over it all, not mine." 

"I've got no interest in doing your work."

"No, just in increasing mine."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Would you rather I hadn't done it?" he asked, his voice deceptively bland.

Bard met his stare. "I'd have preferred to be consulted."

"They'd have been a thorn in your side and they'd have endangered the trade routes to my realm and to Erebor. I did what needed to be done to remove what would have become a threat in the long term. And I did it now, when they weren't in a position yet to require a war. Amathiel was adamant that my forces should be ready in case they were needed, so it was no strain on our resources. Would you have preferred that I'd waited?"

"Would a week have made a difference?" Bard asked. He knew Thranduil was right, but that didn't mean that he had to like how it had been handled. "If I'm supposed to put up with this lordship, then I should have a say in what concerns Dale. I remember words to that effect from you."

"And I stand by them, Lord of Dale," Thranduil answered, the use of his title and the deepening frown he directed at Bard clearly saying that he didn't approve of this conversation. "They attacked the commander of my people here in Dale, that alone would have been justification enough. That Imrahil is my son only adds insult to injury. And they attacked you, my ally and," he paused almost imperceptibly, and Bard doubted that most others would have noticed, "my friend. Reason enough to ensure it won't happen again."

Leaning forward, Bard wished he could trust himself to get up without the risk of falling over. "Don't think I'm not flattered, but you don't get to make such decisions for me."

Thranduil folded his arms. "You were in no position to make it. I acted in your best interest after consulting with your council."

"And they told you to take your army and get into a pissing contest with Alfrid?" Bard raised a hand to run it through his hair, his fingers catching a tangle. "At least this time that strategy worked out." 

"It would have been just as effective last time. Even I cannot account for armies of Orcs who follow foolish Dwarves." 

Bard coughed when he attempted to swallow his laugh, then did laugh when he saw Thranduil's nonplussed expression. "Makes me wonder how close to the truth Elvish tales of grand deeds are, and how much is simply insisting on a certain interpretation."

"Question the Noldor," Thranduil said serenely, clearly refusing to rise to the bait. "We Sindar have no need for embellishments." 

It was a good thing that Bard by now knew what Noldor and Sindar were, though he had no idea how to tell them apart. Perhaps he'd notice once he actually saw one of the former. "So that story about King Thingol getting lost in the woods for years…?"

"True, every word of it. Queen Melian's beauty was rivalled by none, I can assure you." Thranduil briefly looked wistful, then frowned when Bard coughed once more. "You should return to your bed, we've lingered here long enough."

Bard didn't go quite as far as clinging to the bench with his hands, but it was a close call. "No," he said firmly. "I'm fine. I'm not moving." He paused when he saw Thranduil's speculative glance. "You're not moving me either."

"I wonder how you'd resist." 

"Better don't try to find out. I'm fine! And I'd be a lot more fine once everybody stops insisting on banishing me to bed. Why should it be helpful if I can't do anything but lie there and be bored out of my mind? That can't possibly be healthy." 

Shaking his head, Thranduil stepped forward and reached for Bard’s shoulder, his grip almost painfully tight. "You will take care," he commanded. 

"Or?"

Thranduil bent and brushed his lips against Bard's brow in a fleeting kiss, then straightened again. "Or I'll let your children tie you down after all. They've been most insistent."

It wasn't the only thing they'd been insistent on, either. Bard still hovered somewhere between anger, fear and relief at the thought that Bain had accompanied Thranduil to Lake-town, which was something they'd all wisely kept from him until today. Rationally it might make sense to bring him along as the heir to Dale - which was an odd thought in itself - but Bain was Bard's son, and parents didn't have to be rational. That it had apparently been Bain's own idea didn't make the entire situation any easier to untangle.

“I’m not an invalid who needs to be coddled,” he muttered. 

The look in Thranduil’s eyes turned cold. “No,” he agreed, his voice flat, “but what you are is Dale’s Lord. Your children are not the only ones who expect you to take care of yourself, and it’s a task at which you’re failing.”

Straightening to lessen the difference in height at least a little, Bard glared up at him. “As if I did this on purpose. Do you think I like being injured?”

“Nobody could mistake your current behaviour for appreciation of your sorry state. But you should not have been in a position where such an ambush was an option.” Thranduil’s gaze was unwavering and it took effort for Bard not to be the first to look away. “What you need to understand, Lord of Dale,” again the emphasis on his title, “is that you cannot risk your life on a whim.”

“It was hardly a whim!” Bard snapped, then had to draw a steadying breath to keep from coughing. He’d be damned if he gave Thranduil that little proof that he might not be as well as he’d like. “They were under attack, I had to-”

“Had to do what?” Thranduil interrupted him. “How were you planning to rescue them by yourself? They faced a dozen enemy riders, and help was already on the way. What difference would you have made? You are one man, and with a bow I won’t argue your proficiency. But what use would you have been in a fight between cavalry?”

Jaw set and chin raised, Bard narrowed his eyes. “They were one of our patrols. I sent them out there. What was I supposed to do, watch them get slaughtered?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said simply.

Bard could only huff in surprise at that. “Would you have?”

The hint of pain on Thranduil’s face was gone so swiftly that Bard might have imagined it, though by now he had no doubt that he’d been meant to see it.

“Would you have?” he asked again.

Thranduil didn’t look away. “I have.”

There wasn’t much Bard could say in reply to that, so he remained silent.

“What you need to understand,” Thranduil said, his voice perfectly calm, “is that you cannot consider yourself a soldier to be used and possibly lost in battle. Not when you carry the responsibility for your people. In a battle they’d need the encouragement of seeing you lead them, but in a skirmish you mustn’t involve yourself lightly.” 

Bard folded his arms tightly across his chest, hands tucked in for warmth despite the sunlight in his face. “It’s still my life to risk.”

Thranduil shook his head. “No, it isn’t. And you need to understand that. The sooner you do, the better it will be for you and your people. They’ve placed their trust in you, and you have accepted this responsibility when you allowed them to do so.”

“There wasn’t much allowing about it,” Bard muttered. “You try talking them out of something once they’ve made up their minds.”

The little smile at the corner of Thranduil’s mouth was gone as swiftly as it appeared. “That may be so. But it doesn’t change the situation. There is more to being a leader than the requirement to give orders and make decisions. They have a claim on your life, and you cannot take that away from them.”

“You make it sound as if they own me. I’m not a slave.”

“You may change your stance on that assessment.” Thranduil took a half step back to lean against the railing again, his posture less forbidding than before. “You owe it to them to take care of yourself. They have chosen you as their lord, and I agree with their choice in this matter. But it means that you mustn’t place yourself in danger needlessly.”

“I seem to remember seeing you in the middle of battle,” Bard said a little more sharply than he’d intended. “There’ve been complaints from Elves that you didn’t wait for your personal guard when you pursued the Orcs into Dale.”

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. “Feren needs to remember not to complain about his king to foreign powers. Or to you.”

“I’m not a foreign power?”

The expression on Thranduil’s face was hard to read. “I don’t consider you as such.”

Bard felt his hackles rise at that dismissive disregard. “So I’m not important enough to count? Dale doesn’t matter?”

Now that unreadable mask became easy to decipher; it wasn’t hard to recognise that blend of irritation and frustration, though Bard usually didn’t see it directed at himself. “That’s not what you need to concern yourself with right now.”

“Of course not, it’s not important enough,” Bard muttered with plenty of belligerence and was rewarded with an almost inaudible growl from Thranduil that made him want to reach out, catch him in a kiss and see if they couldn’t work off some of that pent-up energy in more enjoyable ways. Wishful thinking, he knew; there was no way he’d be able to get his stubborn body to cooperate enough for a shag when even stairs were still an insurmountable challenge, no matter how tempting the idea might be. 

“It’s important,” Thranduil conceded, “but it’s not the matter at hand. You must remember that you cannot simply endanger yourself at will.”

“Again, I remember quite clearly that you weren’t following your own advice.” Bard hadn’t paid much attention to the Elves during the battle; he’d been too focused on giving his own people what direction he could, and what little concentration had been left he’d used to not get himself killed. But he remembered seeing flashes of Thranduil in the thick of fighting, first on his elk and then on foot, and there hadn’t always been other Elves nearby.

Tilting his head, Thranduil released a slow breath as if he were buying himself time. “I know my abilities,” he said eventually, then raised his right hand when Bard opened his mouth to argue. “I know my abilities, and while I’m aware that it doesn’t make me invulnerable, my successors are in place. Calemir has ruled Dorwinion long enough that he could step into my place without creating a major upheaval, and his own son and daughter are old enough to handle their father’s realm if it should fall to them.”

In the back of his mind Bard had been aware that the Lord of Dorwinion had children - there’d been mention of them in the taverns once or twice, though he couldn’t remember why - but he’d never quite made the familial connection to Thranduil. “That you’ve got children and grandchildren doesn’t mean you get to ride off into danger and I don’t.”

“My heirs are grown and ready to handle their responsibilities, should it come to it.” Thranduil’s gaze gentled. “Your heir is still a child and unprepared. Would you truly wish to place this burden on his shoulders?”

“Leave Bain out of it,” Bard said flatly. “This isn’t about him.”

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. “I beg to differ. If you manage to get yourself killed, it will be your son who needs to step into your place. And I daresay he won’t thank you for it, not when he is still so young.”

It irritated something deep down in Bard to hear that calm voice give word to thoughts he himself had done his best to ignore so far. He knew that Bain’s fate was tied to his own, and that his son would succeed him one day. If they managed to keep Dale alive, that was - who could tell what the future might bring? Bard certainly wasn’t going to even attempt it; a year ago he’d have said, too, that Bain would eventually follow in his footsteps, only it hadn’t been about the lordship of a reclaimed ancestral home, but a handful of shipping contracts and a rickety barge.

“If you won’t consider the people who’ve chosen to follow you when it comes to throwing yourself into unnecessary danger, then think of him,” Thranduil went on. “Do you think he’d be able to claim your place? I have my doubts, and such matters never end quietly.”

“It won’t come to that,” Bard growled, pushing himself up to his feet despite the spell of vertigo that slammed into him almost immediately. He locked his knees, his rising anger keeping him from swaying. “Stop killing me off in your thoughts already!”

“Then stop endangering yourself where it is not necessary!” Thranduil shot back. “You lost the right to do so when you took on the mantle as the leader of your people. It’s no longer just about your own life. Dale needs stability more than anything else, so you owe it to them to guarantee it.”

There was far too much truth to those words, much as Bard was loath to admit it. He knew about measuring risks against responsibilities; it was what he’d done for the past eleven years, ever since Kari’s death had left him as the only one to take care of their children. Ferrying goods for the Elves wasn’t the most profitable option for anyone with a barge and a working knowledge of the Long Lake and the Celduin, but it carried less risk than most other possibilities. Bard had taken chances when they had seemed reasonable, but he’d always known that if he ended up hurt or in the Master’s cells, his children would be the ones to pay the price. 

He didn’t appreciate having Thranduil throw that same reasoning back at him. 

“I didn’t choose this,” he said. The floor seemed to twist beneath his feet and he flung out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but felt a firm grip on his upper arms before he could reach that far. To his relief Thranduil didn’t make him sit down again but simply helped him stay upright instead, though his brow creased in a frown that Bard decided to ignore.

“Do you think that you are the only one who never chose to rule, but had it thrust upon him?” Thranduil asked eventually, once Bard didn’t have to lean on him quite as much anymore.

“The Master clawed his way to the top. Alfrid’s done the same.” They had been what Bard refused to become in their greed and chilling disregard for others. It was hard enough to be called Lord; at least nobody had even attempted to call him Master instead.

Thranduil shook his head, a mocking smile on his face. “Such shining examples they make.”

“Exactly. And they’d never have done anything to help their people if it meant even the smallest chance of stubbing their toe, so forgive me if I’m trying to be different from that.” Scowling at his weakness, Bard carefully sat back down again when the dizziness didn’t fade. Damned poison. “I wasn’t asked whether I want this.”

“And you think I was?” Thranduil took a seat by his side with considerable more grace and looked out across the square that stretched before them, now almost deserted in the warm afternoon sun. 

Bard glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but Thranduil wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t think anyone in Lake-town remembers how you came to rule,” Bard offered.

“How quickly some things are forgotten.” Silence stretched between them long enough that Bard didn’t think more was forthcoming, until Thranduil continued, “I was handed my crown on the battlefield of the Last Alliance’s war against the Shadow. My father wore it, and then my brothers should have come after him. And yet I was the one with that weight on my head after those blood-red days.” 

As calmly spoken as those words were, it was impossible not to hear the ache in them. Sigrid’s explanation came back to Bard then, about how Tiriwen had been the Elves’ queen for a day in those dark times until her husband had been slain. Distant past for those who could hope to see seventy years if they were lucky, but for Elves in their immortality, those times probably never faded. Again he looked at Thranduil but there was no reaction, as if whatever he saw in the distance held his entire attention.

Slowly he slid his hand across the bench to let it settle against Thranduil’s where it rested between them, the small touch the best he could think of in response. For a little while they just sat like this, until Thranduil turned his hand to slide their palms together, fingers interlocking in a light hold. 

“Don’t risk yourself where it isn’t needed, Lord of Dale,” Thranduil said quietly, his lips curling in a smile when Bard rolled his eyes at having his title used once again. “You’re not a man with enough patience to handle the aftermath, if even a few days of rest are too much.”

"I'm going to have to escape," Bard muttered.

The hold on his hand tightened briefly. "I'll just take that as a sign of your recovery. And as a sign that I'd best sleep in your bed for the time being."

Which wasn't something Bard was about to protest, even though it was strange to share a bed with Thranduil and do nothing but sleep. 

"You're just trying to make me let you lock me in that dungeon again," he accused. 

Thranduil looked unimpressed. "Is it working?"

Bard sighed. "Maybe." He _was_ beginning to feel tired, but giving in now felt too much like admitting defeat, and he wasn't about to risk this little bit of freedom. They were all so unreasonable about allowing him to do anything except lie around. Once more he turned his face into the sun to catch as much of its warmth as he could, then permitted Thranduil to return him to his imprisonment.

***

Again Bard found himself on his house's rooftop, looking across a Dale that had never been destroyed. He’d seen it before in his dreams, the high towers and brightly painted walls, the latticework on windows and balconies, the trees full of fruit wherever enough room could be found. But even in the dream he could tell that the air smelled different this time, that there was something missing. No dragon perched on the guard tower. No fields were burning. No sense of menace lingered. 

Slowly he blinked and began to see the people in the streets. They just went about their lives surrounded by market stalls and chatting groups of neighbours, children in colourful clothes darting back and forth as they played. Some of the faces were familiar to him, while he could have sworn he'd never seen others before. But there was no doubt in his mind that they all belonged here. 

Once more he tilted back his head to survey the sky, but if there was a dragon anywhere, Bard couldn't see him.

***

When Bard woke, he lay still for a long while and listened to the chirping of crickets outside his window, the only sound in the middle of the night. No dragon was roaring in his ears, no fire was scorching his face, no acrid smoke burning in his lungs. Gone, for now at least, though the last vestiges of the dream still made him scoot closer to Thranduil to feel the solidity of another body and know that he was awake. 

A wordless murmur, then his head was tucked under Thranduil's chin and he was drawn into a loose embrace, one of the Elf's knees working in between Bard's to entangle them further. It shouldn't have been comfortable - and probably wouldn't be for long - but right now Bard was more than content to feel the rise and fall of Thranduil’s chest and hear the quiet sound of breaths that weren't his own. 

He'd missed having this simple grace of sleeping next to someone who wasn't a child torn awake by a nightmare, both for the peace of mind it gave him and for the quiet company it granted. There'd never really been a time when it had felt right after Kari's death, and over the years the awareness that this, too, had been lost to him had lessened until he hadn't thought about it anymore. Sleeping alone was normal and he'd grown used to it. And yet somehow he hadn't even noticed that Thranduil was sharing his bed not just for pleasure, and that it had happened more than once already that they'd only slept, nothing else. Life had just been so filled with tasks and duties and things requiring his attention that there was so little time to reflect on these quieter matters. 

Now, in the dark of the night and with Thranduil’s arms a warm embrace around him, it bore thinking about. 

Bard was aware that something had shifted between them over the course of the past week, but he also knew it hadn't been the beginning of anything. That lay further back, perhaps as far as those first few private talks in Thranduil's tent, when they both had still thought that Thorin would see reason and that all it would take to achieve their goals would be a show of force. 

Again Thranduil murmured something into Bard's hair, his embrace briefly tightening, and settled down once more with a faint grumble of contentment. With a smile Bard tilted his head to place a kiss against the spot at his throat he knew to be sensitive, then tucked his face into the crook of Thranduil's neck and let himself focus on the soft brush of long, pale hair and the faint scent of a quiet summer morning. 

He could get used to this, as unlikely as it was. 

Huffing quietly, Thranduil moved with a little more deliberation as he shifted against Bard to bring them closer together, his embrace briefly tightening. "Once again awake when you shouldn't be," he said, and Bard could feel the rumble of the words against his cheek where it rested against Thranduil's throat. 

"I've had too much sleep already." It was true; he couldn't even remember a time when he'd spent days not working on anything. Life had always been busy and it suited him a lot more than this enforced idleness that made his skin itch with the need to go and do something. Even the always frustrating task of mending clothes or the seams on Tilda's beloved stuffed horse would be welcome right now, but they were all conspiring to drive him insane with boredom and make him sleep. He'd done enough of that because while boring, it was still better than staring at the walls, but by now his body was protesting even the idea of more rest. 

"You'll turn into an Elf if you continue like this," Thranduil told him, lifting his left hand to run it slowly down Bard's spine. It was difficult not to arch a little into the touch and Bard didn't bother denying himself that small pleasure, relishing the sensation of muscles only twinging with a faint ache anymore. He still couldn't move without wincing from the effort and the exhaustion still sat like lead in his bones, but it was progress towards successful escapes. 

"My ears aren't pointy enough for that," he said, groaning quietly when Thranduil paused to prod and knead a sore spot in his lower back until the tension in the muscles finally uncoiled. "And I need sleep, just not as much as you've all been foisting on me these days." Briefly he paused to focus on the slow circles Thranduil was now rubbing into his skin, soothing the aches. "What do Elves do all night? It might be practical to have more hours in your day at times, but you must fill them with something.”

Thranduil gave a delicate snort that was somewhere between amused and incredulous. "It's the middle of the night, you are wide awake when you should be resting, and this is what you wish to know? What Elves do to pass the time until morning? I thought I'd calmed your mind on that matter."

Bard just shrugged and canted his hips forward when Thranduil's hand reached his rear and settled there, calming rather than arousing. Not that he could have managed much in that area when his body was still concentrating on repairing more important matters. Another frustration to add to the growing list, one not made any better when he had Thranduil curled around him in a way that usually tended to lead to quite enthusiastic sex. "Seems like the moment for it."

"Sometimes I do wonder about you Men and your ideas," Thranduil murmured, and Bard felt the slide of long, soft hair against his cheek as the Elf shook his head. "There is a beauty and serenity in the night which the sun cannot match in its glory. We Elves were born under the shining stars of Elbereth Gilthoniel, and the memory will forever be in our blood. So the night is a time for reflection and meditation for us. Minds can become just as exhausted as bodies, and while we are perhaps more resilient than you in both regards, it's a matter of degree." 

That made sense. Bard knew that if he'd been awake for more than a day, it hadn't done much to help with thinking clearly, no matter how hard he'd tried. Fortunately those moments had been relatively rare, especially once he'd begun to refuse the Master's demands when they pushed too far into the unreasonable. Bard had paid for that disobedience in other ways, but at least he hadn't risked sinking the barge and drowning out of sheer inability to pay attention. 

"And as for the time we don’t spend in thought... " In Thranduil's voice a smile was audible, "there are always ways to share such hours in pleasurable intimacies, after all, even if you insist on misappropriating haylofts for that purpose."

"That was once," Bard grumbled. And they'd had plenty of fun at the time, though Thranduil had very clearly not been amused with picking hay out of his hair and off his clothes afterwards and wasn't about to let Bard forget it anytime soon. "I'm definitely not trying that again with you."

The light pat to his hip had to be approval, just as the kiss to his brow. "Excellent. I knew you'd comprehend eventually that some things are best done in civilised surroundings."

His hands were comfortably tucked in between the two of them, so Bard lightly nipped Thranduil's throat in lieu of poking him. "Careful, or I'll start thinking that you're far too delicate for a lot of things we've been doing."

That got him an amused hum. "I'll show you delicate," Thranduil drawled and bent to kiss him again, this time on the mouth and with more intent behind the gesture, enough to send Bard's head spinning after a few moments of it. Perhaps it was still an aftereffect of the poison, perhaps it was the rush of knowing what might follow. Perhaps both.

"I'm afraid I already know about delicate," he murmured against Thranduil's lips, that familiar taste still on his tongue. "Sorry. I don't think I'm going to be of much use tonight."

Smooth hands cupped his chin and he felt Thranduil lean back far enough to see his face. "That's hardly a surprise."

"Sorry," he said again.

One hand slipped to the nape of his neck and tangled in the hair there to give a swift tug to get his attention. "What for?"

Bard rolled away from him and onto his back, careful not to land too firmly on the injured shoulder. Nights they shared had come with a pattern and he didn't like the thought of breaking it any further than he already had, not when there were so few predictabilities left. Yet another irritation stemming from this sodding arrow, as if being confined to bed wasn't bad enough already. 

"Wasting your time, perhaps." He lifted his right arm to bury his face against it, trying not to let his frustration show even if that was probably a futile attempt. "I understand if you'd rather find something else to do with the night."

Sharp silence settled between them. Then his arm was suddenly seized and drawn down and he knew that Thranduil was glaring at him even though he couldn't see it in the darkness. 

"You," Thranduil said slowly, "are sometimes so incredibly obtuse. This time at least we can blame it on your health and count on a recovery. Do you truly think that I'd do anything I don't want to? That I'd be here if it weren't where I wanted to be?" His hand on Bard's lower arm tightened briefly. "I enjoy our times of intimacy greatly, don’t doubt that, but bedding you is not the only reason I want your company. It makes me just as happy to share a cup of wine and a quiet talk with you as when you share my bed. Each has its purpose and its time, and I'd prefer for you to be well enough for whatever we do at any given moment. It may surprise you, but there lies very little appeal in seeing you faint from anything other than what pleasure I'm causing you."

"I don't faint," Bard muttered, because it was the first thing that came to mind while he was busy sorting his way through the rest of Thranduil's words. 

"Get better and we'll see." Thranduil released his arm and settled that hand instead on Bard's chest, at the same height where the arrow had struck him in the back. "I have you, and I intend to keep you."

It wasn't often that Bard was at a loss for words, but that statement did the trick thanks to what was being said and what wasn’t.

He might have said the same to Kari, once upon a time. There had never been doubt in his mind that she had owned his heart, even when they had begun their life together in respect and friendship while love had only come later. She still held a part of it, though even the happiest memories they'd shared were now edged with the sorrow of losing her. Thranduil’s words would have been fitting as it had never been only about the pleasures of their shared bed for either of them. There had been plenty of that after their somewhat awkward beginnings, but there had also been companionship and friendship and the joy of their small family. 

Just as it wasn't simply a matter of desire with Thranduil, but affection and trust and respect, and he really should have understood it sooner. It wasn't even much of a surprise; he just hadn't realised what he'd subconsciously long accepted.

"I'm going to end up with even more of your froofy cushions in my bed, aren't I?" he asked eventually, lifting his hand to rest it on Thranduil's where it lay against his chest. 

Thranduil made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and an irritated huff that was surprisingly inelegant by his standards. "You might as well admit that you appreciate them far more than those straw-filled turnip sacks I've seen in use."

"I'm admitting no such thing," he said, giving a content sigh when Thranduil began to trace small circles against his sternum. "Nothing is as pointless as a cushion with tassels and embroidery." 

"Which is why you kept them even when I wasn't here to enjoy them, I presume." 

Bard aimed his best innocent smile at the vague shape of Thranduil's face. "It's not like we've got bedding to spare," he said, because there was no way he'd admit that the sodding things had grown on him and that he actually liked their faint smell of fresh grass and sunshine.

"I'll add a few turnip sacks to the next supply shipments," Thranduil promised. "I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

Bard rolled his eyes. Then he reached for one of the stupid cushions, happy that his injured arm was cooperating with the move, and solidly whacked Thranduil in the chest with it.

There was a brief moment of entirely stunned silence before he was pinned - carefully but no less firmly - back down into the poncy cushions in question, Thranduil's hands on his elbows trapping him and preventing any further assaults. 

"Should I take this as an act of treason or a sign that the poison is still addling your mind?" Thranduil asked flatly. 

Bard just grinned up at him, then tried to lift his head far enough to claim a kiss, but couldn't quite get there before the ache in his muscles made him drop back down. "You needed a bit of ruffling," he said. "I'm happy to provide."

He felt strands of Thranduil's hair brush across his throat and shoulders as the Elf shook his head, probably with that expression of faintly amused exasperation on his face that always took a bit of work to coax from him. "You're mad," Thranduil told him and closed the distance between them enough to rub their noses together, but withdrew again when Bard tried for more.

Bard quirked an eyebrow at him. "You like it."

Thranduil sighed. "Perhaps," he said and punctuated his admission with a fleeting brush of lips gone swiftly enough to make Bard grumble with disapproval that turned into a happy moan when the teasing was followed by a proper, lingering kiss. 

A week later he was strong enough to stand on the ramparts in the warm noonday sun and watch Thranduil’s retinue as they made their way across the valley and back to Mirkwood. The Woodland Realm needed its ruler after having been abandoned on such short notice, but that rational knowledge didn’t do much to ease the regret Bard felt at his departure. 

“I’ll return for your harvest festival,” Thranduil had promised that morning as they had lain in bed together, shivers of pleasure still curled at the base of Bard’s spine under Thranduil’s small caresses. It had been slower and more cautious than he might have wished for, but he wasn’t about to complain. 

From his vantage point up on the walls, Bard could see the fields and their deep golden colour. A handful of days, but not much more.

***

The people of Lake-town had never been particularly religious, and they'd come from too many different places all over Middle-earth to truly find a common faith. They'd shared a vague awareness of Ulu, the Ruler of all Waters, but beyond that nobody really spent much time wondering about gods. 

When the first harvest of Dale was brought into the city to be stored for the winter, however, Bard was certain he wasn't the only one ready and willing to thank whatever deity was listening for letting them get this far. The grain alone would see them safely through the next year, and the other crops were plentiful enough that they'd be able to strike lembas from their diet from now on. The stuff might be good and it was certainly useful, but after a year of it most of Dale was tired of eating lembas in every shape and form as their main staple. The harvest festival would be the best sign for that, and Bard counted on the King under the Mountain and the Elvenking to bring with them whatever was needed to bolster Dale's resources and make it a memorable celebration indeed.

"Do you think this is it?" Sigrid asked as they watched from the walls as the carts piled high with sheaves of grain approached the bridge at the northern gate. A company of Rohirrim was accompanying them, less out of a need to stand guard and more to add a touch of ceremony to the procession and to show off their riding skills. "We've managed a harvest, the walls are repaired and the city is safe…"

Bard glanced at her, then at Tilda beside her who was waving down to the riders. Easy to spot on his black horse, Léored waved back for a moment before returning his attention to the men around him, focused on his tasks. 

"I think we're doing quite well, all things considered," Bard said and reached out to draw her into a brief hug, then laughed when Tilda demanded one as well. From Bard's other side, Bain just cast his sisters a grin before returning his attention to the far more interesting view before them. He wasn't quite as obsessed with horses as Tilda, but riding had turned into a new skill for him to be mastered. That and learning swordplay from Imrahil, axe-work from Dwalin and all sorts of disreputable ways of fighting dirty from Tauriel, whom Bard by now suspected of having picked them up in a tavern somewhere. Sometimes he wondered how Bain managed to find the energy, then had to conclude a little ruefully that youth might have something to do with that.

Once Tilda released him, Sigrid came back to lean against him, one hand resting on his shoulder. "It's been less than a year," she said. "It should count as more than just quite well."

He gave her a closer look at that, but couldn't see any of the tension that had so often settled on her face these days. Too many worries for one so young, but he still hadn't found a way to dissuade her. It was enough to make him glad that the burden of being his heir wasn't on her, no matter how uncertain it was that it would ever be passed on to Bain either. She pushed herself hard enough as it was, though she was learning where to draw the line. 

"You're right," he agreed and brushed a kiss against the top of her head, trying to show her some of the pride in his heart. "Not just well, but fabulously so."


End file.
